


Prompts for Pie: Compiled mini-fics

by scifigrl47



Series: Prompts for Pie [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, But also whatever Clint is doing, F/M, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mostly me for suggesting this, bad choices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-12 22:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 36,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2127315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scifigrl47/pseuds/scifigrl47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A compilation of mini-fics, originally posted on Tumblr.  A real pack of wild cards, please read the story notes for more details.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Harris and the Roombas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zeefood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zeefood/gifts), [Dagonet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dagonet/gifts), [ArwenLune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenLune/gifts), [catlinyemaker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catlinyemaker/gifts), [Jadesymb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadesymb/gifts), [paperdollkiss](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=paperdollkiss), [Silence_Dogood](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silence_Dogood/gifts), [zarhooie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarhooie/gifts), [brasslizard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brasslizard/gifts).



> So, a little backstory.
> 
> A friend of mine on Tumblr was in a pretty bad spot financially. In an effort to help her out, I put up the following offer: For those who donated directly to her, and provided me proof that they had done so, I would take a prompt on the pairing, situation, or concept of their choosing, as long as I felt comfortable with it, and could do it justice.
> 
> Twenty-eight people took me up on my offer before I cut it off.
> 
> Some choose to give me free rein, some had very specific requests. All of them were exceedingly kind and enthusiastic. All stories are a minimum of one thousand words, and a few will end up being quite a bit longer. Some tie to my existing verses, others are standalone fics.
> 
> All of them are at the choosing of the prompter, though most, I suspect, did not get quite what they expected. They were posted on Tumblr as I created them, with a few more to go, but I have had requests to archive them here. Please be patient as I clean them up and get them archived. Each chapter will have an explanation, if needed, and any warnings and ship information. Please read the chapter introductions carefully if there is something you want, or need, to avoid.
> 
> These are the equivalent of giftfic. Please treat them that way.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Zeefood, who requested the following: "A gaggle of Roombas (Roombae?) have taken to following Harris around like ducklings."
> 
> Harris gets the best prompts. Just saying.

“Aw, you have a Roomba!”

Harris looked up from his work. “Yes, want it?” he said to the pleasant agent who had paused at the door of his cubicle. She handed him a file, and Harris took it. “Thank you.”

Dani grinned. “Sure. I like them.” She tucked her files under one arm and leaned over the wall of Harris' cubicle to pat the Roomba on its case. “They're cute.”

Harris gave her a polite smile. “So I'm told,” he said. He reached out with his pencil and set the eraser against the Roomba's side, pushing it back, away from his paperwork. “Stop it,” he told it, when it whined. “I agreed to let you serve as a paper weight. You move, you're no longer weighting.”

“I'm surprised it's staying,” she said. “Most of them keep moving constantly.”

“I noticed.” His trash can started rolling away, and set his foot on it. “I guess I'm just lucky.”

Dani looked down at the trash can, her lips pursed. “Is there a Roomba under there?”

“It was annoying me,” Harris explained. A faint, confused beeping came from the inside of his desk drawer, and he gave her a tight lipped smile. “Anything else?”

Her head canted forward. “How many-”

“Watch your feet,” Harris told her.

“What-” She scrambled backwards as a Roomba shot between her ankles. Her mouth gaped open, and then she started laughing. “How many of them are in there?”

“Way too many,” Harris said. He bent back over his work. “If you'd like to take a few with you when you go, I'd be grateful.”

“I think you're on your own,” she said, giving him a cheerful wave before she headed down the aisle.

“Story of my life,” Harris said. He gave pushed the paper weight one back in place. “I swear if you end up sucking my brains out through my eyeballs or something, I will haunt your creator.” 

The Roomba beeped cheerfully at him.

“Yeah, that's what I thought.” Harris sighed. The day was almost over. And maybe this time, they wouldn't have multiplied by the time he came back in the morning. 

*

“You can't leave with those.”

Harris stopped, confused. “Excuse me?”

The guard, a pleasant fellow named Gary, shook his head. “You need to have clearance to remove proprietary tech from the building, Harris.”

“What're you-” Harris glanced behind him. Half a dozen Roombas were bouncing against each other and swirling in complicated patterns across the lobby floor. “What, those things? I'm not-” He stared at Gary. “They're not with me.”

Gary gave him a doubtful look. “They look like they're with you. They're following you.”

“Well, that's their problem,” Harris said. “They belong in here. I belong-” He pointed both hands at the door. “Out there. Not here. I'll go, they'll stay.”

Grinning now, Gary tipped his cap back with a flick of his finger. “You think so?” he asked, brown eyes dancing. “They seem real attached to you.”

“I suspect a dark hand in this,” Harris said. He crouched down. “Hey, bumble bots. Back to work.”

The Roombas clustered around him, beeping and whirring in a way that seemed almost pleasant. Harris was pretty sure that they had been programmed to look nonthreatening. It didn't work all that well, but he appreciated that someone had tried. He stood up. “Okay. Off you go!”

One of them tried to consume his shoelace.

“Okay,” Harris said. He shifted his messenger bag around to his front, digging through the pockets. Agents and support personnel streamed past him, smiling and laughing as they did. Harris was used the the amused looks, most of them knew Tony Stark well enough to have some pity for him. He stepped out of the way, letting the lucky ones leave, and the Roombas followed.

“Yeah, looks like they've decided anywhere you're going, they're going,” Gary said, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“We'll see.” Harris pulled a pencil sharpener from the depths of his bag. Giving the little cup a shake, he yanked the top off, checking the contents. It was mostly full of wood shavings and graphite shards. He wound up. “Fire in the hole! Watch out for flying Roombas!” he yelled and lobbed the damn thing like a grenade.

There was an instant of silence, and time slowed down as the pencil sharpener went tumbling, end over end, scattering wood shavings everywhere. Almost as one, the Roombas spun on their little wheels, and took off, beeping at the top of their little circuits.

“Have a good night, Gary,” Harris said, shifting his bag back behind him.

“Good night, Harris,” Gary said, chuckling under his breath.

Harris pushed the door open, grinning at the fading blue of the sky. “Freedom, sweet freedom,” he said, spreading his arms. “And that's-”

The sound of a Roomba impacting with a glass wall was like a gunshot. Harris twitched forward, his arms folding over his head in a desperate attempt to protect himself. Horrified, he twisted around, his mouth falling open as he watched the little bots bounced off the massive glass front of the SHIELD building. One after another, they smacked against the glass and spun, wobbly and off-kilter, before backing up and charging the wall again.

“Are you kidding me?” Harris asked, his shoulders slumping. Giving in, he walked back through the door. “What is wrong with you guys?” he yelled at the Roombas, who promptly stopped trying to reduce themselves to scrap on the windows.

“I think they want you to stay,” Gary said.

“I don't want to stay,” Harris pointed out. “I don't- Want to stay.”

“Sorry,” Gary said. “Maybe they'll need to charge soon?”

“Maybe I'll shoot them,” Harris said. He trudged back towards the elevator. He knew, without even looking, that he wasn't alone.

“I wouldn't recommend it!” Gary called after him. “Rumor is it, Stark thought of that!”

“Of course he did.”

*

“I see you've found some friends.”

Harris opened his eyes. Phil Coulson was leaning over his cubicle wall, his arms folded on the top. “I have to live here now,” Harris said, morose. He spread his arms, nearly knocking over “This is where I will die. In this fabric covered box.”

“Melodramatic, aren't we?” Coulson was smiling, just a little bit.

“I'm trying to sleep on my desk, sir. I think that deserves some melodrama.”

“Most people start out with under the desk,” Coulson told him.

“Well, I would like to, BUT THERE ARE ROOMBAS UNDER THERE.” Harris could hear the note of hysteria in his voice and clapped a hand over his eyes. “Can I kill Stark, sir?”

“That's a very long line, and a lot of people with more seniority than you,” Coulson said. He pushed away from the wall. “Go home, Mr. MacIntyre.”

“I would like to,” Harris pointed out. “But-”

Coulson snapped his fingers. The Roombas shot out from all directions, every nook and cranny, every little hole they'd hid themselves in. The swirled around Coulson's feet, nudging against his ankles. “Go home,” Phil said, he turned on his heel and headed up the hall, the Roombas rolling behind him.

Harris blinked after him. “What just happened?” he asked.

A Roomba slid back around the corner of his cube. “Give it a few months,” it said in an overly perky robotic voice. “You'll get used to it... or you'll have a psychotic episode.” 

“Thanks,” Harris told it. “Thanks. 'Men In Black' quotes. Thanks.”

“Go home, Mr. MacIntyre,” Coulson called.

“Thank you, sir.”


	2. Iron Man and Roller Skates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Brasslizard, who asked merely for "Iron Man and Roller Skates."
> 
> Canon to my "Tales of the Bots" series, with some Steve/Tony doing the parenting thing with a rather irrepressible DJ.

“No.”

DJ gave him a hopeful look.

“Okay, I'm starting to see why Steve falls for that all the time,” Tony said. He put his hands on his hips. “It's not going to work on me, just so you know, so you can quit doing it, that thing where you make it look like you're about to cry. Because I'm immune.”

DJ sniffed, his lower lip trembling.

“This is, this is lies. What you are doing right now, it is manipulative, and it is a lie, I know it is a lie.” Tony did his best to look away. “I know it's a lie, because I invented that particular falsehood.”

DJ huffed out a sigh and leaned his whole body against Tony's side. He twisted to the side, his back against Tony's leg, his feet sliding out in front of him as he pressed against Tony with his full weight. Tony paused, his fingers hovering in midair as his schematics rolled past. 

“No,” Tony told him.

DJ tipped his head back, his dark eyes huge and liquid and sad. 

Tony dropped a rag over his head. Underneath it, DJ giggled. “You have to wear that for the rest of the day.”

“Can I ask why?” Steve asked, as he walked into the workshop. “He gets filthy enough on his own, do we really need to do something that makes him harder to get clean?”

Shrieking happily, DJ shot across the workshop towards the sound of Steve's voice, not bothering to take the cloth off of his head. Steve, moving with a speed that he evidenced only in the middle of the battlefield or DJ's playroom, intercepted the boy before he could run face first into something. “Yikes, buddy, watch where you're going.” 

DJ pushed the cloth back out of his eyes. “Hi!” he said

“Hi. What's the most important thing?” Steve asked him. 

DJ considered that, his head falling back, his mouth falling open. “Pants,” he said at last, bouncing back up.

“Safety,” Steve said, leaning his forehead against DJ's. DJ kissed him on the tip of his nose. “But pants are important, too,” Steve agreed. He shifted DJ to his hip. “What are we up to down here?”

“DJ is attempting to sabotage me,” Tony said. “Possibly kill me. For the inheritance. If he kills me, Steve, see to it that he's punished.”

“I'll send him to bed without dessert.” Steve kissed Tony on the cheek, then the lips. “What madness or genius is he playing around with this time?”

“He is making alterations to the armor,” Tony groused, relaxing back into the arm that Steve slung around his waist.

Steve frowned up at the schematics. “Weapons?” he asked, and Tony could hear the faint note of concern in his voice, the thinnest shiver of a fear that he knew Steve kept in the back of his mind at all times. DJ, unaware of this hidden terror, threw his arms up, dragging himself over Steve's shoulder, draping himself down Steve's back. Steve wrapped an arm around DJ's legs, pinning them to his chest.

“No,” Tony said. He reached up, flicking through the images. He found what he was looking for and enlarged the segment with a clap of his hands. “This.”

Steve's eyes narrowed. “What-”

“Roller skates,” Tony said. “The kid tried to sneak roller skates into the schematics before they went to the fabrication units. Luckily, the fabrication units tattled.”

“Stupid fabrication,” DJ muttered.

Steve laughed. “Be nice,” he chided. “And you don't think you need roller skates?” he asked Tony.

“What possible reason could I have to have roller skates in the damn armor?” Tony asked. “I think I'm enough of a laughing stock already.”

“Tony.”

“Thor used me as a blunt weapon to hit someone with last week,” Tony pointed out.

“And he felt very bad about that,” Steve said, his lips twitching.

“I felt worse.”

“Wheels,” Steve said, bringing Tony back to the topic at hand.

“Wheeeeeeeeeeels!” DJ said.

Steve swung DJ off of his shoulder and down to the floor. He took DJ by the hands. “Do you miss your wheels sometimes?” Steve asked. He crouched down, and DJ's feet pounded on the floor, a happy little dance. Steve shot upwards, throwing his hands above his head and setting DJ swinging through midair. “Maybe you think,” Steve said, holding DJ up above his head, “that if you can fly, your dad can learn to roll?”

He let go and caught DJ as the boy dropped, laughing all the way down. 

Tony took a seat, leaning his elbows back against the bench. “Are you reading something into a little boy trying to install roller skates into my damn super hero suit?” He shook his head. “He's a little kid. Who wants to jam wheels. On my armor.”

Steve gave DJ another toss and then lowered him down to the ground. “Tony?”

“Steve?”

Steve gave him a look. “If I were to call Rhodey. Right this moment. If I were to call Rhodey-”

“Oh, no,” Tony said, spreading his hands. “No. Absolutely not. Do not involve-”

“If I were to call Rhodey,” Steve repeated, grinning like the damn fiend he was, “and ask him what the stupidest thing that you've put on the armor is-”

“He lies. First of all, you have to understand, James Rhodes is a shameless, heartless liar,” Tony said. “You might not think so, but-”

“Someone here's a liar, but I doubt it's Rhodey,” Steve said. He spun DJ around and set the boy back down. “But fine, if your best friend and your most loyal ally cannot be trusted-”

“And he cannot,” Tony interjected.

“Then let's call Pepper.”

Tony gave up. “Steve...”

Steve ambled across the workshop floor. “Tony,” he said, mimicking Tony's long suffering tone. “I saw the armor that had drill bits for hands.”

“That was a mistake,” Tony admitted.

“It was something out of a Japanese kid's show,” Steve said. “That was right on the border of Power Rangers villain, Tony.”

“How do you know about Power Rangers?” Tony asked.

Steve gave him a look and gestured at DJ.

“How does DJ know about Power Rangers?” Tony asked, horrified.

“Clint lives here,” Steve said.

“That was the worst mistake of my life,” Tony said.

“Worse than the drill bits for hands armor?” Steve asked.

“Maybe we can, you know, let that one go, I was not sleeping well that week, it seemed like a good idea at the time,” Tony said, on a sigh.

“Uh-huh.” Steve leaned his hands on the workbench on either side of Tony's body. “Tony? Maybe he just wants to have something else in common with you.”

Tony hated it when Steve made sense. It was always depressing, because it always ended with him doing the right thing. “I am not going to put roller skates on the damn armor.”

“Deej,” Steve said, never looking away from Tony. “C'mere, buddy.” DJ appeared at Steve's elbow, blinking owlishly at Tony around Steve's arm. “Know how I always say it's not fair to gang up on someone?”

“No,” Tony said, but he could already feel the laughter bubbling up in his chest. “Don't you dare.”

“This time?” Steve said to DJ.

“No, absolutely not, no-”

“Bet we can convince him.”

“Oh, no,” Tony said. “No. If this is happening? I'm taking you down with me.”

Steve grinned. “I'd like to see you try, Stark.”

*

“Okay, maybe this wasn't the best idea,” Steve admitted.

“Oh, really, Cap? What clued you in on that?” Tony caught hold of Dummy's support strut. His feet braced apart, he leaned back and let the bot drag him around. “Okay, this isn't so bad. Wheels. Aren't so bad. I can probably-” Dummy took a sharp turn, and Tony went down, wheels going out from under him and his armored ass hitting the ground hard.

“That sounded like it hurt,” Steve said.

“That is because it did,” Tony said, flat on his back. “This suit is surprisingly heavy when I'm forced to, you know, MOVE IT.”

Steve appeared over him, one hand extended, a warm smile creasing his face. “Back on your feet, soldier.”

Tony glared at him for a moment, then grabbed Steve's hand. “You know, you're awfully smug for a guy with little wings on his helmet and little wheels on his boots,” he pointed out.

“I'm a little bit better at this than you-” Steve started, right before Dummy plowed into his back. Caught off guard, Steve's feet went in one direction and his body went in the other, and he crashed to the floor, Tony pinned between him and the concrete.

“Okay, this is a little harder than I thought it would be,” Steve said, and Tony started laughing, his body sprawled out, his stupid little wheels spinning. 

Dummy peered over Steve's shoulder, his head twisting this way and that. “Wanna show us how it's done?” Tony asked him. After a second, Dummy's head bobbed in a little nod, his claw coming out, and Steve rolled free of Tony to let him take it.

With a little pushing and a little pulling, and Steve's hands planted firmly on his metallic ass, Tony managed to get himself back up. He took a deep breath. “Okay, Dummy. Let's go.”


	3. Phil and Clint Vs. Laundry Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Zarhooie, who requested: "Clint/Coulson doing something ridiculously mundane, like laundry or yardwork."
> 
> I wondered if I could get 1000 words out of laundry. As it turns out, I could get 1500 out of laundry.
> 
> No one is surprised.
> 
> Clint/Phil, canon to the Toasterverse, with a little public striptease by Clint and the usual side commentary by Natasha.

“Why is this in the laundry?”

Clint glanced over. “Because it's dirty?” He sensed there was more to the question than he was getting, but he often felt that way. He dumped the last of the towels out.

Phil gave him a look. “It passed dirty about two years ago,” he said. He held up the t-shirt, his mouth a thin line. “Clint. This thing has holes.”

“Pretty sure that's normal.”

“A shirt should have four holes. One for your head, one for your waist, and two for your arms,” Phil deadpanned. “Any more than that, and you've entered a real fashion faux pas territory.”

Clint considered the faded blue shirt with its peeling logo advertising a bar-b-que joint that was probably still in business. Probably. Who cared, it had a funky weird picture of a dancing pig with a chef's hat on the front, and that made up for a lot. Okay, so it was a little battered. But so was he, and screw it, it was his damn t-shirt. “Still good,” he said, reaching for it. “I'll just wear it around the apartment.”

“Great, that means I'm the only one who gets to see it.” Phil held it out of reach without much difficulty, one hand on Clint's breastbone, keeping him easily at bay. “Clint, it's a dust rag with sleeves.”

“Give me my shirt.” 

“Let's not and say we did.”

Clint backed Phil up against the gleaming washing machine. Amused, Phil just stared him down, tossing the shirt to the table behind him. Clint leaned in, a sly smile sliding across his face. “I need that,” he said.

Phil's eyebrows arched. “Any particular reason why?” he asked, only sounding mildly curious.

“This one's dirty,” Clint pointed out, pulling the neck of his shirt away from his body.

Phil chuckled. “So wash it.” He put a hand in the center of Clint's chest and pushed him back. “You're in the damn laundry room, Barton.”

Laughing, Clint backed off. “You asked for it.” Phil's only reply was a roll of his eyes and a long-suffering sigh, but he was smiling as he started folding towels.

Clint grabbed the hem of his shirt and stripped it over his head in one smooth, easy gesture. Humming under his breath, he wadded it up and hooked it into the open door of the machine. Phil just kept folding laundry, not so much as glancing in Clint's direction, but Clint knew he was watching.

So he unfastened his pants and slid them down his hips, down the length of his legs, letting them hit the ground. Then he stepped out of them, clad only in his boxers as he leaned over to pick them up.

“Nice,” Phil said, and he didn't sound nearly as sarcastic as he was trying to sound.

“Thank you,” Clint said. He tossed his pants into the washer and shoved it shut with his hip. 

“Agreed.”

He jerked back upright to find Nat giving him a look from under her lashes. “Oh, please don't stop on my account,” Natasha said. She was standing in the door to the laundry room, her basket on one hip. “I like a show with my laundry.”

“It's a repeat,” Phil pointed out, a faint smile hovering around his mouth.

“I don't mind a rerun now and then,” Nat said, dropping her basket on the table next to him. “It's comforting to know that some things never change.”

Clint considered being ashamed and then decided it was a waste of effort. He boosted himself up to sit on the table next to Nat's laundry. “Since when do you use the public laundry room?” he asked, reaching for a camisole that was lying on top of the pile.

She slapped at his hand. “Since the super energy efficient one in my apartment is shit at getting bloodstains out,” she said.

“Tell me about it,” Phil groused. Behind the cover of the pile of towels, he wadded Clint's t-shirt into a ball, nudging it towards the trash.

“Don't even think about it,” Clint said, leaning back on his hands. 

Phil slanted a glance in his direction. “Seriously?”

Clint held out a hand. “Seriously.” He wiggled his fingers. “Give it here.”

Phil's eyes squeezed shut, and he tossed Clint the shirt. “Thank you,” Clint said, flipping it into his laundry basket. 

Nat watched this, one eyebrow raised. “What is-” She grabbed it before Clint could distract her, unwadding it and holding it up. “Oh my God. You still have this?” she asked Clint.

“Well, you're holding it, so I guess so,” Clint said, taking it back.

“Despite my best efforts,” Phil said.

Clint threw his hands in the air. “It's fine, God, what is wrong with both of you?”

“We have standards?” Phil asked. “Minimum standards?”

“Well, you both slept with me, so I think we can agree you don't,” Clint said, smirking at him. “And the shirt is fine.”

“That shirt wasn't fine when Phil first gave it to you,” Nat said, shaking her head. “And it's only gotten worse since then.”

“Fine,” Clint said. He buried the shirt in his clean laundry, making a mess of the folding job, and not giving a damn. “It's fine.”

Phil was staring at Nat. “I didn't give him that.”

“Yes, you did,” she said.

“No, you didn't,” Clint said. He reached for Nat's laundry again, hoping to distract her, but she just slid the whole basket out of reach. 

“Don't you remember?” Nat asked, one arm over the top of her basket, blocking Clint's access. “That mess. With the skinheads?”

Phil looked at her, unimpressed. “You are going to have to narrow it down a lot more.”

Her lips twitched. “In Florida? Clint got stabbed?”

“Barely. It was more of a nick than a proper stab wound,” Clint said.

Phil flinched. “Ah. Yes. That one.”

Nat started loading her laundry into the machine. “You left us in the back of the car and went to that church thrift shop? Because we were all covered in blood, and that was a little... Noticeable.”

“And I came back with whatever they had that would fit,” Phil finished for her. He looked at Clint. “That was the shirt?”

Clint shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.

Nat gave him a look. “You said,” she said to Phil, “that you'd grabbed that one because of the stupid pig with the stupid chef's hat.” To Clint, she added. “It had holes in the armpits when he gave it to you.”

“Built in air conditioning,” Clint said, grinning. “You didn't seem to mind. You were all over me the moment I put it on.”

“Yeah, I was putting pressure on your wound,” Nat said. She hip checked the machine's door shut. “Put pants on before you rejoin the normal people,” she said, patting him on the cheek on her way past. “And don't touch my laundry, you pervert!”

“I've already seen your underwear!” Clint yelled after her.

“You've already worn my underwear!” she called back, laughing.

“Oh, my god, it was one time, and I still think you got me drunk.”

She leaned back into the room, her eyelashes fluttering. “You were so pretty.” Clint threw a balled up pair of socks at her head and she retreated, laughing.

“I hate that woman,” he said, grinning.

“So.”

“You're going to read things into this, aren't you?” Clint asked.

Phil leaned back against the table, his arms crossed over his chest. “It was in a fifty cent bin at a thrift shop, Clint.”

Clint shrugged. “Yeah. But-” He shrugged again. “It was the first thing you ever gave me.”

Phil stared at him, and Clint felt his face heat. “What?” he asked, a defensive note sneaking into his voice. “I can't be sentimental?”

“For a ruined t-shirt from the FIFTY CENT BIN?” Phil asked, his voice incredulous.

Clint sighed. “You said it reminded you of me,” he said.

“You were bleeding out in my back seat, I was a little bit angry with you,” Phil pointed out. He turned around, bracing his hands on the counter on either side of Clint's legs. “Thus a t-shirt with a cannibalistic pig on the front.”

Clint leaned over, brushing a kiss across Phil's mouth. “You gave it to me.”

“I've given you better things. Things that are a little less embarrassing,” Phil said.

“You never forget your first.”

Phil's cheeks were flushed. “Fine,” he said. “You can keep it.”

“Can I wear it to bed?”

“No.”


	4. Kate Bishop Gets Stood Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Dagonet, who requested: "Clint and Coulson blowing off training Kate Bishop to go on a date, and her hanging out at Avengers Tower with the others."
> 
> Gen, mentions of Clint/Phil happening offscreen. Not canon to any of my established verses, with hints of 616 verse here and there, and all the Avengers Ladies you could shake a stick at. I wouldn't recommend it, they will take the stick away from you and beat you with it, and you will deserve it.

“What do you mean he's not here?”

“Sorry,” Carol Danvers said, and she had a sympathetic smile on her face that, ironically enough, just made Kate feel worse. “He left hours ago.”

“But-” Kate shifted her bow a little higher on her shoulder. “He said we'd, you know. Practice.”

Natasha leaned back against the kitchen island, her arms crossed easily over her chest, a tea cup held in one graceful hand. “He's unreliable, Kate. You know that.” Her eyebrows arched. “Right?”

“Right,” Kate grumbled. She shifted her bow to her other shoulder, and then, feeling stupid, back again. Finally, dispensing with any pretense that she'd be heading down to the Avengers' range today, she set it down next to the door. She wished she could just toss it aside, without visible concern. But it was still her bow. 

And she still flinched, a tiny bit, when she let it slip from her fingers.

“Maybe he'll be back,” she said, trying to sound cool about it. “It's, like, there's thirty minutes until when he promised to meet me here.” She was early. As much as she liked to pretend otherwise, it was still kind of exciting to be invited up to the big leagues.

Except, of course, when the A-Lister stood her up. In front of a bunch of his teammates. Might as well stamp 'not particularly important' on her forehead.

She was going to kill him.

“Don't show up early for Clint Barton,” Carol said, her lips twitching.

“Don't show up at all for Clint Barton,” Jessica Jones said, wandering into the kitchen. She gave Kate a look, her head tipping in Kate's direction as she passed. “Tell me you didn't show up for Clint Barton.”

“He was supposed to meet her in the range,” Nat said.

“Maybe he's still coming,” Kate said.

“He's out with Coulson. He's not going to be back in a half hour,” Jess said. She opened the fridge and leaned inside. “Nat, can I eat the rest of your canolli?”

“Would you like to lose a hand?” Natasha asked, sipping her tea. 

Jess stood up, licking ricotta cream from her fingertips. “Wha?” she mumbled, her cheeks as round as a chipmunk's.

Natasha's lips pursed up tight. “I will make you suffer for that later,” she said.

“Worth it,” Jess said, after swallowing. She ducked behind Carol when Natasha took a step in her direction. “No killing me in front of witnesses!”

“Carol respects the sanctity of leftover pastry, and if there's one thing you can count on a Hawkeye for, it's an alibi,” Natasha said.

Kate caught herself smiling, a faint glow of pride in her chest, even if she realized that was probably not a good thing. “What's he doing out with Coulson?” she asked. “SHIELD business?”

There was a beat of silence, then Natasha said, her voice calm, “Date.”

Kate stared at her. “A date?”

Natasha nodded.

“With-” Her face scrunched up. “Agent Coulson?”

“That a problem?” Jess asked, her voice quiet.

“What, that he's into guys? No. That he's into Agent Coulson? Maybe.” Kate crossed her arms. “Am I thinking of the right Agent Coulson? I think I'm thinking of the right Agent Coulson.”

“Quiet guy, half-smile, black suit, fades into the woodwork, looks like he lives for filing?” Jess asked.

“That's him.”

“Yep.”

Kate resisted the urge to kick something. “Well, at least that explains why he hasn't hit on me,” she muttered, petulant and not even caring about it.

“Haha, no, he's an equal opportunity-” Jess broke off on a cough as Nat's elbow dug into her side with a bit more force than was strictly necessary. She rubbed her ribs with one hand. “I mean, yes. That's the reason.”

“He's dated half the people in this room,” Carol said without looking up from her book. “Clint is a bit indiscriminate.”

Kate's shoulders slumped. “Of course he has,” she said, because, yes, she'd known that. It wasn't like it was a secret. It wasn't like she hadn't seen the parade of women going through his life, most of them furious with him. She plopped down on the bench style couch that ran the length of the kitchen's window covered outer wall.

“Don't get me wrong,” she said, because certain things NEEDED to be said. “It's not that I want him to make a pass. I certainly don't want to-” She waved a hand. “Get involved with that. With him, I mean. With him in that way.”

“Good girl,” Nat said, pouring herself a cup of tea. 

“It's just-” Feeling stupid, she slumped a little lower on the couch, her arms crossed over her chest. “Never mind.”

“It's just that it feels like you're the only one he hasn't hit on?” Jess filled in. She took a seat on the back of the couch. “And as much as you know it's wrong, the part of your brain that's been indoctrinated with 'must be pleasing to men' keeps wondering what you're doing wrong?” Kate pointed a finger in her direction. Jess spread her hands. “Welcome to womanhood!”

“Yay,” Kate muttered. Her lower lip stuck out. “It sucks.”

“Congratulations, you've demonstrated real life experience that allows you to skip the intro level courses,” Nat agreed, smiling.

Carol leaned back in her seat. “Okay, as occasional team leader, I am making a command decision here.” She pointed at both of them. “You have reached a level of cynicism where you are no longer allowed to talk to anyone.”

“My life just became much easier,” Jess said.

“That implies we ever talked to anyone,” Natasha said. 

“Not willingly, or unless there was a profit to be had,” Carol said, grinning.

“The only way to live,” Nat shot back.

“I hate everyone,” Kate announced to the ceiling.

“And with that, you're in the graduate level courses.” Carol slid off of her stool. “Come on. Let's go.”

“Go where?” Kate asked, her head back, her body limp. Let her die here.

Carol leaned over her. “Clint may have discovered other commitments,” she said, “but I'm here.” She held out a hand. “I might not know much about a bow, but I'm pretty good at sparring.”

Kate considered the hand. “Really?” she asked.

“Probably for the best. I've seen you fight,” Natasha said, setting her teacup down on the table. “It's not pretty.”

“Hey, I do okay for myself,” Kate said, taking Carol's hand and letting herself be pulled to her feet.

“You fight like a boy,” Jess said, her hands on her hips. “And you can do better than that.”

“Let's go,” Natasha said. “Afterward, Jess can treat us all to a pastry and an espresso.”

“Hey, why-”

“Don't push your luck,” Carol said.

“I know a place,” Kate said, grabbing her bow as she followed them from the kitchen. Everyone needed a lifeline. And the bow was still hers.


	5. Crevulating Leads to Violence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Doro_neko, who requested a fic containing the word "crevulate" or "crevulating."
> 
> I took that as a hint for a reappearance of Calcifer the Toaster.
> 
> Canon for the Toasterverse (of course), with Steve/Tony and some minor hints at Clint/Phil.

There was a Post-It note on the bathroom mirror, with two words on it: “Handle. It.”

Tony studied the note, turning it over in his mind, his hands braced on the edge of the sink. The origin of the note was clear, the writing was unmistakably Steve's. He was known to be a bit understated in written communication, but this was straight up brusque.

Tony lifted the note with one finger, hoping that more information would be forthcoming on the back, but there was nothing there. With a mental shrug, he reached for his razor. He'd figure it out. Hopefully before Steve finished his morning run and wanted to know if it, whatever 'it' was, had been 'handled.'

It didn't take him very long to figure it out.

The remains of the bread maker were a sad heap of broken parts and fractured panels, scattered across the kitchen floor. There was crime scene tape stretched around the broken machine, protecting the scene. On top of the counter, the toaster was wrapped in another strip of crime scene tape. Thor was holding him by the cord, scowling down at the toaster.

The toaster didn't seem to care.

“Please tell me that the coffee machine wasn't taken in some sort of appliance uprising,” Tony asked the room at large. Clint and Bruce and Natasha were all at the kitchen table. None of them had toast.

“Nay, 'tis fine,” Thor said, his voice heavy with portent. “The good bread machine was the only casualty.”

“Thank God,” Tony said. He put everything else on hold until he'd managed to fill a mug and had it clutched between his hands. He downed it while he considered the scene. “You just had to, didn't you?” he asked the toaster. “What the- You just had to fucking do it.”

The toaster ignored him.

“He is unrepentant of his crimes,” Thor said. He shook his head. “We are all disappointed in his behavior.”

“I bet.” Tony ducked under the crime scene tape and crouched down beside the mangled bits of what had once been a very nice bread machine. He sipped his coffee and considered the wreckage. “Yeah, this is a total loss, you are a dick,” he told the toaster.

The toaster rattled at him, and Thor yanked it back.

“It's my fault,” Bruce said.

“I can't wait to hear how you warp reality to make this your fault,” Tony said.

“He's good at it,” Clint agreed.

Bruce ignored them both. “I, uh, was experimenting with gluten-free bread loaves,” he said, his voice apologetic. “Rice flour, things like that?” The sentence ended on a faint uptick, the high swing of a question where none should have existed. “They were okay, but kind of... “ His voice trailed away.

“Dense as a fucking brick and dry as the Sahara,” Clint filled in. “Ends up crevulating.”

“Stop making up words,” Natasha told him. “Or at least make it more plausible.”

“It's a word! It's totally a word,” Clint said. “I got Phil a Word A Day calendar.”

“To crumble,” Thor explained.

Clint gestured in Thor's direction and Nat rolled her eyes. “All-speak,” she said. 

“Pretty much,” Bruce admitted. “I thought the bread might make better...”

“Toast,” everyone chorused, and the toaster got over excited by the possibility of so much toast to be made. Tony smacked him with his spoon before returning it to his coffee cup.

“And of course, it made horrible toast. Too crumbly,” Tony said, filling in the rest of the story. “Stop!” He told Calcifer, who was edging closer to him, scanning for toastable materials. “Okay, from now on, we refer to it as the 't word,'” he told everyone else. “Before he sprains a slot of something.”

“You're humoring the toaster,” Natasha said. “Do you ever look at your life and realize that it's gone horribly awry, Stark?”

“Every goddamn day when I come down here and figure out that you people are still living under my roof,” Tony said. He leaned back against the counter. “Okay. So. Steve is displeased, I take it?”

“Steve is fucking pissed,” Clint said. “Did you see the crime scene tape?”

Tony eyed it. “Where did he even get that?” he asked at last. “Why... Why do we have that?”

“Some people like to have interesting sex lives, Stark,” Clint said.

“Oh, God, stop talking, just-” Tony warded him off with both hands and a coffee cup. “Stop talking. Please. I don't want to know.”

“Do you really?” Bruce asked. “What would you-”

“Don't encourage him,” Natasha said. “Phil keeps a roll of it in his briefcase. It's a good emergency measure to keep people out of places we don't want them to be.”

“Listen, don't... Spoil things,” Clint said.

“I prefer things spoiled,” Tony said. He took a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah.” He pushed away from the counter. “This calls for desperate measures.”

“This is going to be bad,” Bruce said.

“Probably.” Tony scooped up the worst of the mess, carrying it to trash and dumping it in. “Jarvis, order another bread maker and send the Roomba Hit Squad up here to take care of the rest.”

He tossed back the rest of the coffee. “Time to get some shit done.”

*

Steve opened the fridge, ignoring the rattle of wheels from the counter. “I am getting something to drink. There will be no toast,” he said, without even looking at the toaster. He straightened up, a bottle of juice in his hand. The toaster was waiting eagerly for him. “I'm very angry with you,” Steve told him.

The toaster subsided with a sigh of his slots relaxing.

“Oh, good, you're back.”

Steve twisted around. “Hey,” he said, smiling as Tony crossed the kitchen, a box under his arm. He leaned in, brushing a kiss across Tony's lips.

“Okay, good, you seem less enraged than I was thinking you would be,” Tony said, smiling, and Steve laughed. 

“I was.. A bit upset,” he admitted. “A long run took care of that.”

“It's so hard when the children are disobedient,” Tony agreed. “I ordered us another bread machine. I'll get this one upgraded and we'll figure out a way to make sure that Calcifer keeps his distance.”

“I'd appreciate that,” Steve said. He reached for a glass. “I'd appreciate it more if you just reminded the damn toaster that violence is not appropriate.”

“He's got moxie,” Tony said. “And I think it's that we need to give him a more... Appropriate playmate.”

He set down the metal and glass box, right next to Calcifer. “Ta-da!” he said.

Steve considered it as he drank his orange juice. “Very nice,” he said. “What is it?”

“Toaster oven.”


	6. Peggy Carter Finds Her Way Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr user krameriagrayi gave me the following prompt: I would really like to see something with Peggy Carter in it.
> 
> Gen. Pre-Avengers, of course, and written and posted before the beginning of "Agent Carter." But man, I'd love to see some of this. 8)

"New Jersey?"

"You needn't sound so disdainful. It's quite a real place."

"Real is relative, Agent C." Howard Stark threw himself into a chair, sending it rolling sideways. He slouched low, head back, arms tossed out to the sides. His face looked pinched and pale, and Peggy gave him a sideways glance. Hungover, it would seem. She wasn't surprised. "I'm not arguing real,” Howard continued. “I'm arguing if it's a place I'd like to spend time. And that has a simple answer: It's not."

"I suppose you'd prefer to see us put forward the effort required to maintain our current efforts from, where exactly?" She set her chin on her fist, fluttering her eyelashes. "The cabana beside your pool, perhaps?"

He grinned at her, his eyebrows twitching in an absolutely ridiculous expression. "There are worse ideas. New Jersey, for instance, New Jersey is a worse idea."

"So you have said." She arched an eyebrow. "Repeatedly."

“I gotta repeat it,” Howard pointed out. “You aren't listening.”

“I'm listening. With ever decreasing reserves of patience.” Peggy flipped the lid off of a cardboard carton, flicking through the files inside with a practiced hand. There were cabinets to fill and shelves to stock, and seemingly hundreds of boxes of classified material to sort through. She didn't mind. She'd done it often enough, that it was second nature. 

“Why New Jersey?” Howard asked, propping his chin on one fist. “I mean, there's forty-seven other states. We don't have to end up here.”

Peggy took a deep breath. “Perhaps we should, though,” she said, her voice quiet. “This is where it began. Not all of it, of course. There were others. We stood on the shoulders of giants, Howard. But so much of it began here. 

She ran a hand over the polished surface of her desk. “We return to the places that seem like home, I suppose, the places that once let us be the best we could. There's safety in it, in being in a place where we did great things. In being in a place where we can do great things again.”

For a long moment, there was silence. Peggy nodded, a sharp little dip of her chin. “Don't you think so?” she asked, turning back to Howard.

He was slumped in his chair, his sunglasses riding low on his nose. His mouth was gaping open. His head tipped to the side.

Peggy sighed. “Or you've fallen asleep.” She shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?” Shaking her head, she went back to her work until a knock at the door brought her attention back around.

"Hey, Agent C!" 

She turned, feeling the smile bloom over her face. "Gabe! Jim!" She was surprised at how glad she was to see the two of them, their familiar grins and their familiar stances, the puckish amusement in Gabe's face and the wry twist to Morita's mouth. She crossed to them brushing a kiss against one cheek, and then the other. “Joining us, are you?”

“We've been called up,” Gabe said. “And a welcome call it was, too.”

She nodded, understanding that. "Is everyone here? Falsworth? Dugan? Dernier?”

Morita jammed his hands in his pockets. "Gangs all here," he said, with that lopsided little smile of his. "Waiting for orders."

"Speak for yourself," Gabe told him. "I'm enjoying my leave." His teeth flashed in a brilliant smile. "Yeah, Falsworth's trying to keep Dernier from blowing something up.”

“He really doesn't care what,” Morita said. “It's a problem, but they haven't let him blow anything up in a while, he's getting twitchy.”

“Adding to the mess, Dum-Dum's in favor of the explosion, so Falsworth's got his hands full."

"I am not calling a grown man Dum-Dum," Peggy said, trying not to smile. "Absolutely not. It's undignified."

Gabe shrugged. "So's he."

“He said that he liked it,” Morita agreed. “Says it's memorable.”

“He's got a point,” Gabe said.

“Yes, but if he keeps that little bowler hat of his on, no one will see it,” Morita said.

Peggy pointed. "Out. Out of my office, both you, find yourself a vaudeville stage that needs a comedy duo."

Gabe looked at Morita. "I'm feeling distinctly unwelcome here," he said.

"You know, I have to agree with you." Morita rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Also, a lack of faith. Bet we could make it in movies.”

“Handsome guy like me? I think you're right.”

"Trouble makers, both of you," Peggy said, trying to hold back a laugh.

Gabe leaned an elbow on Morita's shoulder, his eyes wide. "Madam, I am hurt by your insinuation. I will have you know that I am a war hero."

Morita hooked a thumb in his direction. "Yeah, and I'm friends with a war hero."

"Out," Peggy said, still laughing. "And take that with you." She pointed an imperious finger in the direction of Howard, who was now slumped low in his chair, his hands hanging down to the ground, his sunglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. As they all stood there, watching, his head lolled forward. Morita nudged the chair, and Howard's head flopped to the side.

“It's our first day, and the bigwigs are trying to get us to hide a body,” Gabe said. He kicked Howard's ankle with a flick of his foot. Howard didn't respond.

“My fault,” Morita said. “I put down that I was an expert on body disposal when I was filling out my application.”

“See, this is why I can't trust you. You keep secrets from me,” Gabe told him. “I didn't know you were good at that..”

“Eh, I'm not, but who tells the truth on Army forms?” Morita asked, shrugging. “I figured I'd have time to get caught up before they actually expected me to follow through.”

Peggy crossed her arms over her chest, still chuckling under her breath. “I shall have you both court martialed if you do not remove yourself immediately,” she said, trying to sound stern. But it was such a relief, that they were the same that she remembered, that all of them were still there, that the loss had not been total.

“Court martial. That'd be a new audience,” Gabe said.

“New chance for fans,” Morita agreed. “The big leagues.”

“Wanna risk it?”

“Out!” Peggy said.

“She seems busy,” Morita said, his eyes twinkling as he grinned at Peggy. “We should come back later.”

“You're a class act,” Gabe told him. He ducked the mock swat that Peggy aimed at him with a file folder, laughing as he grabbed hold of Howard's chair and started towing it out the door. Howard slumped a little lower in the chair, his mouth falling open on a sustained snore. Morita leaned over, catching Stark's feet, and lifting them up.

Gabe paused at the doorway. “Hey?” Peggy held up the file folder again, and he laughed. “It's good to see you again, Agent Carter.”

Morita grinned. “It surely is.”

She smiled. “Thank you, gentlemen. I'm glad to be here.” She pointed at the door. “Out.”

“I'm looking forward to working with her,” Morita said, and Peggy was laughing as she made shooing motions with her file folder. She turned away, going back to her work, still smiling. Another knock on the doorframe brought her head up.

“Morning, Agent Carter,” Col. Phillips said. “Gotta stop socializing with those men, they're gonna bring you nothing but trouble.”

She snapped to attention, without thinking about it, the instinct still there. “Sir.”

He chuckled under his breath. “At ease, Agent.” There was a twinkle in his eye, and a faint smile on his lips. He tucked his cap under his arm as he walked into her office. “How're you settling in?”

Peggy looked around, her eyes skimming over the small office. It was chaotic right now, piles of information and documents everywhere, stacks of file folders ready to be put away, memorandums and contradictory orders fighting for space on her desk.

“I've set up quite a few offices,” she said at last. “A lot of them. It's easy enough work.” She reached out with one hand and pushed a filing drawer closed, reveling in the sound of it sliding into place. “But this is the first time I've ever set up my own.” Her chin came up, and she gave Phillips a smile that held a touch of pride. “I find it changes things.”

That won her another rusty chuckle. “It's a bit better,” he agreed.

“It is.” She leaned back against her desk, bracing her hands on the wood, sinking back into it. 

“Gonna stick around for a while?” he asked.

Peggy considered it, then gave a nod. “I believe so.”

He tucked his cap back on his head, the movement crisp. “Then get yourself unpacked and get topside, Agent. We got work to do.”

He was gone before she could point out that he was no longer her boss. She didn't mind much. She'd never minded, with Phillips. She understood that man. She understood what he meant this time, too.

She crossed to her desk. Opened her bag. There was a pause, a moment of wanting to open the drawer and hide it again. To put it somewhere safe, where it couldn't hurt her, where it couldn't be used against her. She glanced up, letting her eyes flicker over her office. She took a deep breath.

She set the photo of Steve on top of her desk, and headed for the door. There was work to do.


	7. Steve and Tony Make Progress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maplerosekisses requested: Steve/Tony Proposal Fic ♥ Preferably within the "His Fate Will Be Unlearned" AU, but a new/unspecified verse would be fine if it works better for you. No preferences on who does the proposing. 
> 
> Canon to "His Fate Will Be Unlearned" and Steve/Tony obviously. 8)

Steve hated red carpets.

He really did. He always felt oversized and awkward and in the way as Tony effortlessly charmed the crowds and the reporters alike. Tony had a way of grinning and tossing off a few words that had people laughing and blushing in equal parts. Steve always loved to watch him do it.

He just wished he didn't have to do it from within the glare of the same spotlight. But whenever he tried to stand aside, when he tried to step out of the way, the way that their handlers and assistants did, he was treated like he had two heads. People tried to talk to him, ask him questions, point cameras at his face, and Steve just froze up. Every time.

He'd asked Tony once why they kept trying, when it was clear that he was a complete failure at the whole thing. Tony had just looked at him, a look somewhere between amusement and pity, and let his eyes trail from the top of Steve's head all the way down to his feet. He hadn't said another word on the matter, and Steve didn't bring it up again.

Now, he just stood behind Tony during the unending, agonizing chats with reporters and fashionistas, trying to hold onto his polite smile under the glare of the lights. He got through it with a nod and a smile and by watching, always appreciative, as Tony worked his usual magic.

But he hated the red carpet. He was okay with the charity events and the galas and the public appearances Tony had to attend. He went along because Tony honestly seemed to appreciate having him there. That sometimes, out of the sight of the cameras and the crowds, Tony let his smile slip, let himself be tired and impatient. At those times, when it was just the two of them, being hustled through a hall or backstage somewhere, Tony always ended up fumbling for Steve's hand. Steve was always glad that he could do that, at least, could have a hand waiting for Tony to anchor himself on.

He'd put up with hours of red carpets and bad jokes and strained laughter and what he really considered to be wasted money, because for a few minutes, a few silent and hidden minutes, Tony needed him.

The rest of it was just painful.

He could almost predict the questions by now, and he was sure that Tony could predict them. But even so, Tony always answered them, as if he hadn't already answered the same damn questions ten times already that week. About StarkIndustries plans for the next quarter, about the newest initiatives of the Maria Stark Foundation. About who he was wearing, about what his plans were for the weekend, or the summer, or the holiday. 

Steve thought he'd heard every stupid question a reporter could ask Tony. This one was a lot nicer then most of them, chatting softly with Steve about the Mets game until the camera was on. Then, she turned her attention to Tony, just the way they preferred it, her smile warm and easy. After a few of the usual softballs, Tony's handler signaled that they had to get moving. The reporter opened her mouth, and Steve caught just the tiniest hesitation before she said, “And when, exactly, are the two of you getting married?”

“Hey, now,” Tony said, laughing.

“You've been together for years!” she said. “Don't tell me it's never crossed your mind, Tony!”

Tony gave her a bright, charming grin, a chuckle in his words when he said, “Oh, come on now. He's much too smart for that.” He gave her a wink and a nod. 'Thanks so much, Marietta, we've got to get moving now.” He waved to the camera, the crowd, blew a kiss, and was off, striding easily up the red carpet, flashes chasing him with every step.

Steve stood there, a strange sensation creeping over him. It was odd. Like he'd taken a hard, sharp, unexpected blow to the head, and now he was trying to put his brain back where it was supposed to be. He fumbled for his wits, for his senses, and the pain was fading, leaving something more difficult in its wake.

The reporter was still there, still smiling at him, still holding her microphone, and Steve knew he should say something polite, shake her hand, and follow Tony. Instead, what came out of his mouth was, “What did he mean by that?”

She blinked. “Sorry?” she said, her world-class smile not slipping.

Steve waved a hand at Tony's retreating back. “What did he mean by that?” he repeated. Something like rage was there in the words, and he choked on it. “Did he-” He looked back at the reporter. “Is he blaming me?”

“Uh, I don't think 'blame' is the right word,” she said, a little bit placating. “It's not that he's-”

“It sounds like he is,” Steve said. He realized his arms were crossed over his chest. He figured he should probably uncross them. Then he decided he didn't care if it looked like he was angry because he kind of was angry. “Don't you think it sounds like he's blaming me?”

“Well,” she started, but Steve was going now.

“I think that's a little uncalled for,” he muttered. “I just- That was uncalled for, I'm not the one that's been avoiding this discussion, and I don't particular think it's fair to imply that I am.”

Her eyes were huge. “No, I can understand, I would feel the same way.”

“Right?” Steve asked.

“Of course!”

“Steve?” Tony had finally realized that he had lost something on the trip into gala. He gave Steve a bit of a strange look, but his smile was professional, polished. Steve hated that smile, the one that seemed to have none of Tony in it. “We should get going?” The words rose on a veiled question.

“What did you mean by that?” Steve asked him.

Tony stopped, his head flicking to the side, his eyebrows arching. For an instant, the professional mask of a smile slipped, and Tony, the real Tony shone through in a quick twist of his lips. “I have literally no idea what you're talking about, c'mon, we can discuss it inside,” he said, smooth as always. He smiled at the reporter again. “Sorry to come and go, but we need to find our seats and-”

“No, what did you mean?” Steve asked. “You said, 'he's too smart for that,' and it did not sound like a compliment, Tony.”

Tony's face went blank. “Steve. Let's go inside. We're holding up the works.”

Steve's shoulders rose. “Well, apparently, that's the only way to get your attention,” he said. “What did you mean by it?”

Tony scraped a hand over his face. “Steve. I meant 'I don't want to answer this question, so let's find a funny answer that makes it clear that anyone with any sense wouldn't even think about marrying me.'”

Steve's jaw locked. “Well, that's worse,” he bit out.

“It was a joke, Rogers!” Tony said, throwing his hands up, his body twitching with the force of it. “It was a joke so we didn't have to make a big deal about something that is not going to happen.”

Steve recoiled. “Really.”

“No one with any sense-”

Steve's hand went to his pocket. He didn't even know what he was doing when his fingers locked around the little box. He shoved it at Tony. “I was never credited with an overabundance of sense, Stark.”

Tony's hand came up, automatically grabbing for the small square box that dropped into his fingers. He stared at it. “What the hell-” 

Steve's eyes rolled. “Oh, you know damn well what a ring box looks like, Tony, let's not pretend you don't, it's not a surprise.”

Tony gave him a look, his eyes huge. “You think this isn't a surprise?”

“You had to know I was thinking-”

“How long have you been carrying around a ring box?” Tony asked, his voice rising to a sharp pitch.

“A while, I figured I'd find a way-” Steve felt his face heat. “One of these days.”

Tony's fingers locked around the box. “How long?”

Steve shrugged. “A while,” he admitted. But the rage that had carried him this far was gone. “I just-” His smile felt too tight and too sharp on his face. “Thought it was something you might want.”

Tony's face was unreadable. “What did you want?” he asked, his voice very quiet.

Steve waved a hand in his direction. “I got you a ring,” he said. “What do you think I want?”

“Should I turn off the camera?” the cameraman whispered.

“If you turn off that camera,” the reporter said, “I will kill you with my bare hands.”

“Oh my God,” Steve said, the reality of the situation crashing in on him. “Oh my God, I-”

In some distant corner of his mind, he felt Tony's fingers brush against his. Without thinking, without conscious effort, he caught Tony's hand in his. Because that was what he was here for. Even if he wasn't expecting it here, under the lights, in front of a crowd, he wove his fingers with Tony's.

Tony smiled. A real smile. “Yes,” he said.

Steve blinked. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Tony agreed. His eyes closed, a smile blooming on his face. “God help you. But yes.”

Steve felt the grin split is face. “Yes?” he repeated, because he couldn't manage anything else. “I mean- Yes?”

Tony slapped the ring box against Steve's breastbone. “Yes! You are an absolute-” Laughing, he leaned in, and Steve met him halfway. Steve kissed him, or maybe he kissed Steve, and Steve didn't really care either way, because he was still clinging to Tony's hand, his grip too tight. But Tony just squeezed back, just as hard, as he leaned into the kiss.

The audience went insane, applause and cries washing over them, and Tony was laughing against Steve's mouth. “You just proposed to me on the red carpet,” he said, his eyes catching Steve's.

“Kinda did,” Steve said. “I told you I was bad at this.”

“Well, it's your first time making a reporter cry, but I think she'll forgive you. You can apologize to her later.”


	8. Clint is Bad at Meet Cute

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paperdollkisses gave the following prompt: C/C One of the guys are at a bar and getting a little harassed, the other comes to his rescue somehow. First meet.
> 
> Clint/Phil, with warnings for canon appropriate violence and bad choices. Not canon for any of my verses.

Some people didn't have any sense.

Clint Barton knew that from personal experience, god knows he'd been accused of it often enough. He had no goddamn sense, and he knew it. But there were times, there were situations, when even he could figure out that bad choices were being made.

There was a slim amount of pleasure to be had to not being the dumbest guy in the room. It was such a rare occurance, he had to savor it when it happened.

When the man in the designer suit and the glossy, well polished shoes walked through the door of the dive bar, Clint just stopped, bottle at his lips, beer hanging heavy on his tongue, to stare. It took him a couple of seconds to remember to swallow, the sight was just that unbelievable. It wasn't as if he minded the view; Clint had always had a bit of a thing for guys who knew how to dress. He was pretty sure it had a lot to do with his own white trash upbringing, but he wasn't about to question it much. He liked a guy who could wear a suit and make it look good, as kinks went, that was pretty tame.

Of course, he also had a thing for guys with an actual survival instinct, so he was pretty sure the scenario playing out in his mind right now wasn't going to happen. 

He was pretty sure this guy wasn't going to live long enough for Clint to see if check his orientation.

The noise in the bar, pretty subdued before the door had opened, had fallen to almost complete silence. Even from his position at the very back of the room, at a battered booth tucked into the back corner of the second floor, Clint could hear the man's footsteps as he crossed the sawdust covered floor. There was no hesitation in the rhythm of the steps. The man walked across the floor, heading straight for the bar, neither speeding up or slowing down. 

Only when he reached the bar did he come to a stop, his hands spread on the wood. His head turned up, the line of his jaw and the angle of his cheek catching what little light there was in the bar, he considered the signs and dusty bottles on display. “Coors,” he said, his voice calm and assured. 

The bartender studied him for a long moment, silently polishing a glass with a bar towel. The man waited, without moving, without speaking, for his beer. Finally, the bartender pushed away from the wall, slowly reaching under the counter and slamming a wet bottle on the bar. “Ten bucks,” he said.

The man paid it without a flinch, depositing the bills on the counter. The bartender scooped them up with one massive hand and went back to scrubbing at the glass. Clint wondered why he even bothered. He'd never seen anyone in this place drink from a glass. Hell, the one the bartender had might be the only mug in the joint.

And if the guy in the designer suit didn't get the advantage of using it, it was probably just for show.

Clint was expecting them to move in, the handful of half-lit bikers that had been clustered around one of the few tables on the other side of the narrow space. They were nudging each other, snickering as they staggered through the bar, talking loudly about playing a game of pool as they crossed the bar. A few other individuals, keeping their heads down, headed for the door, but most people were here because they were up for a fight. This place usually provided one, if they waited long enough.

Clint shifted in his booth, his hands wrapped around his beer bottle, eyes narrowed as he watched them all moving. He knew what was going to happen, even before it did. He saw the largest, drunkest of the bikers put out a hand and shove the man in the suit, hard enough to knock him off balance.

His bottle slipped from his hand, shattering on the bar room floor, and he stumbled back a step. He was saying something, but Clint couldn't hear it, there was too much noise now. But he knew the man was talking, one hand up in a placating gesture as he retreated from them, right up until they had him backed up against the pool table. 

“Oh, fuck,” Clint mumbled under his breath. He didn't need this. He really didn't. He wished that he was capable of just sitting back and keeping his nose out of other people's business, but from long experience, he was pretty sure he wasn't. 

Also, he'd feel bad if that suit got ruined.

Clint was sliding free of his booth, his hand cradling the neck of his bottle, when the man moved. He moved so fast that Clint barely even saw it happen.

The man snagged a pool cue from the rack and spun it around, smashing the heavy end into the massive brawler's nose with a sickening crunch of cartilage collapsing. The bruiser stumbled backwards, howling, probably as much in shock as in pain. The man flicked the pool cue around in a controlled, sharp arc, swinging the lighter end into the bruiser's knee. The strike was hard and sharp and viciously executed, and was followed, in a series of lighting fast attacks, with blows to the other ankle, and the hip.

He darted forward, around the biker. The idiot tried to follow the movement, and the man slid the pool cue into the crook of the goon's elbow, catching it on the rail that surrounded the pool table, and twisting up and back. With his other hand, he shoved the bruiser in the other direction, with a surprising amount of force. There was a hollow pop as the biker's shoulder came out of the socket, and the guy went down.

Clint was pretty sure that he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The man slid the pool cue free and recentered it in his hands even as he turned to face the next threat. “Anyone else?” he asked, still calm and assured.

“Oh, you just had to do it, didn't you?” Clint asked, just before the entire bar came crashing in on him. Swearing at the top of his lungs, Clint tossed himself over the railing that separated the upper part of the bar from the bar floor, and came crashing down on the pool table.

He made very good use of the pool balls in reach, firing them off, one after another, even as a knife sliced into the green felt inches from his bent knee. Barely even glancing in that direction, Clint nailed the idiot in the face with the eight ball and scooped up the knife. “Thanks,” he said, laconic as he rolled off the pool table.

He landed next to the man in the suit. “Hi,” he said. “You're an idiot.”

“And you're Clint Barton. Duck,” the man said, and Clint ducked. The pool cue passed over his head, so close that he felt it ruffle his hair. 

“Have we met?” Clint slammed a foot into an attacker's knee, following it with a vicious right hook. “Did I sleep with your wife while drunk?”

“I don't have a wife.”

“Did I sleep with you while drunk?”

“Do you do that often?” the man asked, sounding only mildly curious. His back hit Clint's, and Clint wasn't sure why he was allowing this, but he was, letting this idiot guard his back, even as he did the same. 

“No,” Clint said. His head bobbed to the side, dodging a punch. “Not often. I wouldn't call it often.”

“But sometimes?” The guy sounded amused now.

“Hey, I can't be hopeful?” Clint asked.

“Hopeful is thinking that we slept together while you were so drunk you can't remember me?”

Clint laughed, slashing out with the knife, pushing an attacker back. “It would mean you might be open to sleeping with me again.”

“Are you trying to flirt with me right now?”

“Why, is it working?” Clint reared back, his shoulders braced against the man's as he found the balance on the piece of shit knife and threw it. It went true, and a biker went down, screaming and clutching his shoulder.

“Mr. Barton, if we slept together while you were so drunk that you can't remember it, how good do you think you could possibly have been?”

Clint spun, coming face to face with the man for the first time. “I don't know,” he mused. “You're here looking for me. Seems like a good sign to me.”

The man's lips twitched, the tiniest little smile. “Romanov warned me about you.”

“Or Nat sent you,” Clint said without missing a beat. “Why-”

“Front door, now,” the man said.

“The cops are gonna be here in a few minutes,” Clint pointed out. “Back door.”

“My car's out front.”

“And I should care about that, why?”

The man turned to him, a half smile ghosting over his face. “Because I'm here to rescue you.”

“You suck at it.”

The man gave a short, hard kick, catching one of the last of their opponents in the solar plexus with his foot. “I think I did just fine. We can talk about how you would've handled it later.”

“So, not interested in a quick lay?” Clint asked, and he did not know why he was doing it, but he was following this idiot, he was actually heading for the front door at a full run, following the back of that impeccable suit jacket. “'Cause I'm not going to lie. I'm kind of turned on just from watching that first move of yours.”

“Adrenaline will do that for you.”

“So that's a no to the offer of hot sex?”

“I didn't say that,” the man said. “We can discuss it.”

“Open to negotiation, I like it.” Clint skidded out the front door, his boots kicking up rocks as he turned the corner, running flat out. “Which one's yours?”

“Red convertible.”

Clint's head tipped to the side. “Unexpected.” 

“I do my best.” The man tossed himself over the door, sliding easily into the driver's seat. “I'm Phil Coulson. Get in.”

“Still hot,” Clint said, and Phil was laughing at him. He didn't much care. Phil had the engine running and the car in reverse even as Clint hopped in on the passenger side.

“Glad to hear it. Seatbelt.”

“Oh, now you have a sense of self-preservation.”


	9. Darcy Sleeps Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From haldane-ify: " I'd like to see a fic in the Avengers Verse, featuring a relationship that everybody thinks is sexual, but is solely a romantic/comfort relationship for the people involved. And there has to be a piece of gluten-free toast in it. (In the fic, that is, not in the relationship...)"
> 
> Canon to the Toasterverse

“So this is going to sound really stupid.”

Natasha just stepped back, waving Darcy into her apartment. “Come in,” she said, an amused smile slipping over her face. “Would you like some tea?”

Darcy hovered inside the door, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her eyes blinking owlishly behind the lenses of her glasses. Her hair had been pulled back in a lopsided bun on the back of her head and she was wearing a pair of sleep shorts and a long sleeve shirt. “No, really,” she said. “This is going to sound really stupid.”

Natasha belted her robe a little tighter. “Darcy?”

“Yes?”

“I have known Clint now for several years. I have, on some level, been intimately connected with Clint Barton for several years. Do you really think this is stupider than anything he would say to me at-” She glanced in the direction of the clock. “Three am?”

Darcy made a face. “Does Clint show up at your door often at three am?”

“Less now than he did before,” Natasha said. She missed it. A little bit. Most of the time, she was grateful that Phil was there to do it, but every once in a while... It was nice being needed.

Not that she'd ever admit that. Especially not to him. She was finally rid of that responsibility. Instead, she just repeated, “Would you like some tea?”

Darcy's shoulders hunched. “I watched a bunch of horror movies,” she said really fast, the words almost running together she was in such a rush to get them out. “A lot of them and now I'm kind of freaking out here and usually I would go and sleep with Jane, but there's Thor and wow, no, that's not happening.”

Natasha waited for her to slow down enough to take a deep breath. Then she reached for the kettle. “And Thor isn't into threeways?” she asked, amused.

“What? Wow. No. Or, rather, I don't know.” Darcy threw out a hand. “I meant, sleep in the same BED with Jane. Not have sex with Jane. I can do that. I know that bisexuals have a reputation for being quote unquote greedy, mostly among bi-erasing idiots, but I can sleep with someone and not SLEEP with someone. I'm capable of-”

“Darcy?” Nat waited for her to grind to a halt, and gave her a smile. “I was just teasing you.” She waved a hand at the couch, and Darcy wobbled over in that direction. 

“Sorry,” Darcy said, collapsing onto the couch. She looked absolutely shellshocked. “I am kind of freaking out here.” Big brown eyes blinked. "There were noises. Scary noises." She scrunched down. "I think something's in my closet and it intends me harm." Her voice was almost inaudible. "Kinda freaking out."

“I did notice.” Natasha filled the kettle and set it to warm. “So we're going to have a cup of tea, and then we're going to try to get some sleep.”

Darcy drew up her knees to her chest. “I can stay?” she asked, resting her chin on her knees.

“You can stay,” Natasha agreed.

Darcy's shoulders slumped. “I can sleep on the couch,” she said.

“I thought you just said that you could share a bed and not molest your bedpartner,” Natasha said.

“Well, Jane, sure. She snores. You? You're irresistible,” Darcy said, grinning at her. 

“I'll take my chances.” Natasha reached for her tea chest as the kettle started to whistle. “Now. Mint or rose hip?”

*

“One day, I will stab you,” Natasha said, padding into the kitchen. 

Clint shrugged. “I'll take my chances. You always look before you stab,” he said, and took another bite of cereal.

“Oh, I'll look. And then I'll stab you,” Natasha said. She considered the kettle, and reached for the coffee pot instead. It was half full, steam rising from the dark surface of the liquid. “At least you made coffee.” Clint gave her a thumbs up and shoveled up more cereal. “Why are you in my kitchen?”

“Phil already left for work and we're out of milk,” Clint said, his mouth full.

“That's what the communal kitchen is for,” she pointed out, reaching for a coffee cup.

“Tony and Steve were kissing,” Clint said, sounding utterly dismayed by that.

“Shocking,” Natasha said, biting back a smile.

“Also, Thor got to the bread before me, all of the bread, it is all gone, and I thought you'd have something. I wanted toast.”

“And yet you're eating cereal.”

He made a face. “You only had gluten-free bread.” He sounded sad as he dug his spoon through the raisin bran. “Breaks my heart.”

“Gluten-free toast is good for you,” she said, and his face twisted up in disgust. Shaking her head, Natasha took a sip of her coffee. It tasted like all sorts of things that she had almost forgotten. She wrapped her hands around the mug and let out a sigh of pleasure. 

“It's nasty,” Clint said.

“What are you, eight years old?”

“Yes,” he said, grinning around the stem of his spoon. “And I think-”

“Naaaaaat,” Darcy said from the doorway of the bedroom, and Clint choked on his raisin bran. Darcy barely seemed to notice him. “Can I use your toothbrush?' she asked, leaning against the doorframe. Her sleep shorts slid lower on her hips, and she pulled them up with one hand. 

“There's a spare in the drawer,” Nat said, over the rim of her coffee cup.

“'Kay. Thank you,” Darcy said, wandering back off.

Natasha waited.

“Are you-” Clint started.

“Next time, do not invite yourself in,” Natasha said, pointing a finger at the door.

“Seriously, Darcy?” he asked. His mouth turned down in a disapproving frown. “Everyone thought you were, you know, but I didn't think-”

“It's better if you don't think,” Natasha said. She refilled her coffee cup and headed back to the bedroom. “Feel free to take the milk, Clint.”

“Nat-”

She shut the door firmly behind her and wandered towards the bathroom. “Just so you know,” she called, as she took a seat on the bed, “Clint says everyone thinks we're sleeping together.”

Darcy's head poked out of the bathroom, a toothbrush sticking out of the side of her mouth. “It's Clint,” she said, unimpressed. “I doubt he really knows what anyone thinks. I doubt he really knows what HE thinks.”

Nat saluted Darcy with her coffee cup. “That is true.”

“But if it's true...” Darcy waved the toothbrush around. “It's because they're all obsessed with sex.” She paused. “Also that kind of makes me look badass. Can we let them continue thinking we're sleeping together?” She gave Nat a hopeful grin only slightly marred by the toothpaste on her lower lip.

Natasha took a sip of her coffee. “I don't know what you're talking about,” she said, smiling. “We did sleep together.” She gave Darcy a wide-eyed look. “Didn't we?”

“Far be it from me to call a lady a liar.”


	10. Darcy and Harris, Sittin' In a Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From tentativesunriseonthehorizon: "Examples of the ridiculous flirting that Darcy does to try and get Harris to take her seriously. Little snippets of situations, or just one long flirt-fest, doesn't matter, as long as Darcy is ridiculous and Harris is flustered!"
> 
> Canon to the Toasterverse, implied romantic flirting between Darcy and Harris. 8)

“Did you- Did you just steal my scone?”

Darcy gave him a wide eyed look. “No,” she said, and then slowly, deliberately, she took another bite of the scone. Harris stared at her, caught between laughing and throwing something at her head. He was getting used to the sensation.

It worried him.

“Have you ever considered growing a sense of shame?” he asked her. “And give me back my scone.”

She took another huge bite, huddled down over the pastry, her arms up and her shoulders hunched forward. “Sorry,” she mumbled, her mouth full. “Can't hear you. Eating my scone.”

“You look like a psychotic chipmunk,” Harris told her.

“Nothin' but scone right now, buddy.”

Harris propped his elbow on his desk and leaned his chin on his fist. He waited for her to finish chewing because if she choked to death he'd probably feel bad about that. Probably. “I got you your own scone. Without even being asked. I was just like, 'hey, maybe I should grab Darcy a scone while I'm in the cafeteria, because they sell out pretty quick.' I got you one. Why would you possibly take mine, Darcy?”

She shrugged. “How was I supposed to know that other one was mine?”

Harris turned his head towards the scone. There was a toothpick in it, and stuck to the toothpick, like a flag, was a Post-It note that said, “Darcy's scone.” He looked back at Darcy.

Her lips pursed up tight. “That's pretty easy to misconstrue. I mean, it might be another Darcy that you're talking about.”

“There is only one of you, to my eternal relief,” Harris said.

“I wanted a blueberry one,” she said, trying to sound sad. 

“They were both blueberry.” Harris leaned back in his chair. “Literally the only difference between the one you choose to swipe, you lousy little thief, and the one you left behind, is the one you took had a bite taken out of it already.”

She shrugged, unconcerned. “I prefer taking yours.”

“That is both odd and creepy, Darce,” he said, doing his best not to grin. It was hard, she was so unashamed of how weird she was sometimes. He knew she was doing it to get a rise out of him, and he wasn't sure if she kept it up because he never actually got mad at her, or because she was hoping to find the point at which she could break him.

He wasn't sure which of the two options was going to work out worse for him. At this point, he just let her run with it, and enjoyed the ride. 

She plopped down on the edge of his desk, her feet swinging in midair as she ate the last bite of the scone. “Or,” she said, leaning in, “you could think about it that I took the smaller scone and left you the bigger one.” She smacked him lightly on the shoulder with the back of her hand. “Why do you always have to be so negative all the time?”

“Experience.”

“I'm going to call you Negative Nelly from now on,” she announced.

“Fine.”

“I will, you know.”

“Sadly enough, it's not the worst nickname you've come up with for me,” Harris said. “Don't you have work to do?”

“Probably. Why do you ask? Want to do it for me?” Darcy asked, licking the crumbs from her fingers.

“Thank you, but I believe I've got enough to do.”

Darcy slid back down to the floor. “Thanks for breakfast, Harris.”

He looked up. She was smiling, and he smiled back. “You're welcome,” he said. 

“See you at lunch, Nelly!”

“Okay, you loon.” Chuckling under his breath, Harris went back to work.

*

“Have you ever tried to set up a pot luck for fifty plus secret agent scientists?”

“Never had that pleasure.” Harris squinted at his screen. “Let me guess. Ten people said they'd bring bags of chips, twenty-five haven't bothered to reply, three or four have offered some really insanely over blown dish, a handful informed you of their dietary restrictions, and the last few just asked if they could 'chip in' via cash instead of food.”

“That's... Pretty accurate, actually.” Darcy tossed herself into his spare chair. “Really pretty accurate.”

“Military upbringing,” he said. His head hurt, and he leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Take my advice. Plan a menu and tell people to choose what they want to bring, expect half of what you ask for to be ignored, and let people chip in for pizza.”

Darcy nodded, even as she set the chair to spinning. “Could work.” She held out a paper coffee cup as she swung past him. “Here.”

Harris took it out of her hand. “Not a brass ring, but still pretty good. Is your department's coffee machine better than ours?”

“Hey, it's a mocha,” Darcy said, her head back, smiling at the ceiling. 

Harris blinked. “Thanks,” he said, taking a sip. It was hot and strong and the sweetness hit him only in the lingering taste on his tongue after he swallowed. 

Darcy was grinning when he looked at her. “Good?”

He toasted her with the cup. “Perfect,” he agreed.

“I know I am,” Darcy said, her head falling back. Harris laughed, and she kicked at him, the toe of her shoe brushing his shin as she went past. “Drink it while it's still warm, doofus. It'll help the headache.”

“I don't have a headache,” Harris protested, and Darcy snorted.

“Uh-huh. Time to get your prescription checked.”

“Probably.” He drank, savoring it. “Any particular reason you're buttering me up?”

She shrugged. “You listen to me when I whine about potlucks?”

“That bad?” he asked.

Darcy sighed. “Ever wonder if you're in over your head?” she asked, her voice quiet in a way that struck him as uncharacteristic.

Harris' eyes tipped up. “Darce?” She looked at him, and he smiled. “I don't think I've ever not been over my head,” he said, and she laughed. “No, seriously. Screw it.” He held out the cup. “We're both in way too deep. We might not have intended it. But here we are.”

Darcy took the cup and took a sip. “Think we'll survive?”

Harris shrugged. “If we don't, I know what my last thought will be.”

She gave him the mocha back. “Yeah?”

“'Darcy Lewis, this is all your fault,'” he said.

Her mouth gaped open. “You are horrible, and I hate you, and give me back my coffee.”

Harris fended her off with one hand as he gulped the coffee, too fast, nearly choking on it, but it was worth it. Because she was laughing as she slapped at his hand, because he was laughing back. “No, no, stop it, my coffee!” he managed.

“Fine,” she said, flouncing to her feet. “You're coming to the pot luck.”

“Ooooh, crossing departmental lines. I don't know if I can-”

“Not a question, Harris. You're coming. Bring a Jell-O salad.”

“God, no.”

“Strawberry. With pineapple bits,” she said, stalking out of his cubicle.

“That is disgusting!” Harris said, leaning out into the corridor after her. She flipped him off over her shoulder, and Harris laughed.

His headache was already fading as he went back to work.


	11. Phil and Clint's Rainy Day Fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Jadesymb: "Clint/Coulson being flirty, ideally one that has a bit of kissing in it."
> 
> Canon to Toasterverse, Phil/Clint obviously

The mission was a complete disaster, the heat had been brutal, and when the rains came, they came without warning and without mercy. That was when Phil figured out that the safe house roof leaked.

Like a damn sieve.

He'd given up cursing this mission. He was too tired and too worn, too concerned for Clint's well-being. Clint, who'd been stuck in the crumbling rafters of a massive old church for days on end, where the heat was oppressive and the air was stale. He'd gotten still and quiet over the last few days, barely responding to Phil in the field. He wasn't much more talkative when the long days were over. Most nights, he just ate, made a cursory attempt to scrape the worst of the dust off of his skin, and crawled into bed.

Phil hated it when Clint stopped talking, but he really hated it when Clint disappeared.

The rain had been pouring down for hours, pounding at what was left of the roof over their head, when Phil realized that he was alone. At some point, as he was scrambling to put a pot or cup under every leak, Clint had slipped out, into the rain.

Phil had spent the next hour emptying overflowing bowls and cups, waiting to see if Clint would make his way back. For all his legendary patience, it had been one of the longest hours of his life. Finally, leaving the pots to their puddles, Phil stepped outside, not bothering with an umbrella or a coat. 

The rain was slowing now, the clouds breaking in several places, but even so, he was soaked through in a matter of minutes. His clothes clung to his skin, heavy and wet, rubbing against his skin with every movement. It felt better than it should have, and he headed out, ignoring the way his feet sank into the thick mud of the path with each step.

He wandered through the rain, breathing deeply, trying to clear the heat and the dust out of his lungs. 

It didn't take long to find Clint. There was a massive old peach tree at the edge of the property, planted at a time long before dwarf trees became fashionable. At the base of the old, gnarled tree was a pair of battered brown boots and a familiar purple shirt, tied into a lopsided pack. Tumbling from the makeshift sack of the shirt was a half dozen peaches, perfect yellow fruit with a flush of red across the surface. 

A soft, low song cut through the rain and wind, and something moved above him. Phil's head came up, knowing what he was going to see, but somehow not prepared for the sight that greeted him.

High above him, Clint was perched in the crook of a branch, his legs straddling it, his back up against the trunk. He was bare to the waist, wearing only a pair of worn and ripped jeans that drooped low on his hips with the weight of the water that soaked them. The skin of his chest and shoulders gleamed with rain and the last rays of the setting sun. One bare foot swung idly through the air, water dripping from his toes. His head was tipped back, his hair in wet spikes. As Phil watched, water ran along the planes of his face, down the strong line of his throat, and over his chest.

He must've made some sound, some soft sound of need or want, because Clint's head tipped down towards him. He grinned down at Phil, not saying a word. Instead, he leaned forward, one hand disappearing into the leaves over his head. The branches shook, scattering raindrops over Phil's upturned face, and then Clint was tossing a piece of fruit down to him.

Phil caught the peach with both hands. It was warm in his palms, and he cradled it between his fingers, savoring the warmth for the first time in days. He leaned back against the tree, rubbing a thumb over the wet skin of the peach, smoothing away the dust and the rain.

“You going to eat that, or just fondle it?” Clint asked.

Phil's eyes fell shut. “Savoring the moment,” he said, his head resting against the rough bark. “That okay with you?”

Clint laughed. Phil opened his eyes, looking up in time to see Clint's teeth sink into a peach of his own. “Missing out,” he said, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. His mouth still looked sticky when he grinned down at Phil. “They're perfect.”

“That so?” Phil asked. 

Clint swung down to the ground, landing lightly next to Phil, taking another bite on his way down. He grinned at Phil, his eyes dancing over the top of the peach. “I think so,” he said. He held it out, fingers wet with juice and rain, and Phil caught his wrist.

He brought Clint's hand to his mouth, taking a bite of the peach in Clint's fingers. “Good,” he agreed, licking the juice from his lips. Clint's eyes fell to his mouth, and Phil smiled. “Want a taste?” he asked.

Clint's eyebrows arched. “It's my peach,” he pointed out. “I climbed the damn tree, Phil.”

Phil leaned in. “Want a taste?” he repeated, and Clint met him halfway.

The kiss was soft and sweet, and Clint's mouth tasted of peaches and rain, and Phil sank into it, into the familiar heat of Clint's mouth, into the solid heat of his body. When he broke away, so desperate for breath that he was dizzy with it, Clint followed him, his mouth trailing across Phil's jaw. “You taste good,” he mumbled into Phil's skin, making Phil laugh.

“You okay?” Phil asked. He'd lost his peach somewhere along the way, one hand locked on the waistband of Clint's jeans, the other cupping the back of Clint's neck. Clint was pressed into him, pinning him back against the tree, hard enough that Phil could feel the hard ridges of the bark digging into his skin through his shirt. He didn't care, just pulling Clint closer.

Clint huffed out a breath in the hollow of Phil's throat. “Doing better,” he said, head coming up to catch Phil's lips again. 

By the time that the kiss ended, Phil was about ready to drag Clint down, mud and rain be damned. But Clint pulled away, breathing hard, the muscles of his arms shaking as he took a step back. “How about you?” Clint asked Phil, his voice raw.

Phil managed a nod. “Better,” he said, and leaned forward to steal another kiss.

Above them, the wind shook the tree, soaking them both. Laughing, Clint scrambled backwards. Phil, breathing too hard to even consider moving, just tipped his head back and let the water drip down his face.

“God, if you could see yourself right now,” Clint said, bringing Phil's head back down.

“I must look like a drowned rat,” Phil said, wryly. He crouched down, trying to get some blood back into his head, and picking up the peach he'd dropped. 

“Whatever. It works for me,” Clint said. He ran a hand over his head, sweeping water out of his hair with a flick of his fingers. It didn't do much, the short spikes still dripped over his face.

“Glad to hear it.” Phil smiled at him. “I like you like this.”

“Half naked and wet?” Clint asked, grinning. He leaned over, picking up the makeshift bag that he'd fashioned from his shirt. It hung heavy and lump in his hand, filled with ripe fruit.

“Smiling and talking,” Phil said. 

“But the half naked and wet doesn't hurt, right? C'mon, throw me a bone here, Phil,” Clint said and Phil was laughing before he even finished the sentence. Clint grinned at him. “That's better.”

Phil took the fruit from him. “Yes, it is.” His free hand caught Clint's, weaving their fingers together. “I preferr you fully naked and wet, though.”

“I think that can be arranged.” Clint's fingers squeezed his. “Want to see if we can find a dry spot to put the bed?”

“You have no idea.” Phil grinned. “C'mon. I'll feed you a peach.”


	12. Bucky Does Not Have Time for This Nonsense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anarialm : "Can I please get a ficlet of Bucky's frustration that Sam and Steve won't just KISS ALREADY? Super fluffly dumb boys."
> 
> Not canon to any of my verses, a bit of flirty Sam/Steve

Bucky tried not to resent it. He really did.

He didn’t have anything to complain about it, and he knew it. The first few days, weeks, months had been hellish, he hadn’t known when it was, where he was, even who he was. He’d lost time, hours and days at a stretch, and the only thing that made sense was Steve. Steve, who could latch onto to an idea, onto a person, with the grip of a terrier and never let go.

Bucky had fought that grip at first. Mostly because it felt so terrifyingly familiar, and he hadn’t known how to handle it. Really, he still didn’t, but he knew he needed it. He needed Steve.

They’d brought him back here, to what he now realized was Sam’s house. Sam’s house outside of Washington DC. They’d had a discussion one time, when they thought that Bucky was asleep, about bringing him back to Brooklyn. Steve had vetoed it, and Bucky was glad. He hadn’t been ready for that; he might never be ready for that. He hated Washington, but he was okay with this. This little house in a pleasant neighborhood, quiet and still for whole parts of the day and night.

Bucky slept a lot. He would’ve thought he’d been done with that, but doing just about anything took too much effort. Memories and thought and touch and movement, it all too effort and he was so tired.

So it had taken him a while to notice that Sam and Steve were doing everything possible not to be alone together. Steve was a step behind or a step in front of Bucky all the time, even sleeping in the chair next to Bucky’s bed. Bucky had been needy at first, and his resentment of that need hadn’t made it go away. He’d needed Steve, he still did.

It was just that Steve needed Sam. Bucky wasn’t sure that Sam realized it, but he wasn’t sure how the man could be oblivious to the way that Steve watched him. If it was obvious to Bucky, well, then, Sam had no excuse. He liked them both.

But he’d never liked being a third wheel.

They weren’t mean about it. Neither of them had it in them to be mean, not like this. It wasn’t that they didn’t want him there. It wasn’t that they didn’t want his company. It’s just that they used his company to avoid being alone together. He was their buffer zone, his presence made it safe, allowed them to relax. As long as he was there, they could avoid the discussion.

And they were both really good at avoiding that discussion.

“How’s it going?” Sam asked, even as Steve nudged him towards the table. Sam set a bowl of soup in front of Bucky, almost before he could lower himself into his chair. Tomato.

“We had a good walk,” Steve said, cheerful as always. He leaned a hand on the back of Bucky’s chair, then his shoulder. The contact was comforting, centering, and Bucky leaned into it. “You should eat it while it’s still hot, Buck.”

He still waited for orders, or permission some times. He didn’t even realize he was doing it, but Steve managed to phrase things, half suggestion, half order, that allowed him to take some ownership of his own head. Bucky appreciated it. He reached for his spoon.

Sam handed Steve a bowl of soup. “You go down to the park?” he asked, grinning. “They don’t want us feeding the ducks anymore, I understand that, but is it bad to say I miss it?”

Steve laughed. “What, you bring a loaf of stale bread down there?” he asked.

“That better not be mockery in your voice, Mr. ‘I could sure use someone to catch me now that I’ve thrown myself out of the window of a skyscraper like a damn punk.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched on the spoon, and it bounced off the side of the bowl. Just like that, Steve’s hand was back on his shoulder. “Want something different, Bucky?” he asked.

Bucky shook his head without looking up, and concentrated on not bending the spoon in half accidentally.

“You want something different?” Sam asked Steve. “I thought you liked-”

“Oh, I do, don’t worry about it.” Steve’s fingers tightened on Bucky’s shoulder, just for a second, like he was holding on desperately. “It’s just-” His voice trailed away and he set his bowl on the table before dropping into a chair.

The awkward silence that followed was almost laughable.

“Aw, for cripes sake, will you just stop tiptoeing around and get down to it?” Bucky said. He was pretty sure it was the most words he’d managed to string together since they’d brought him out. Steve blinked at him, his eyes huge, and Sam’s mouth was gaping open, just a little, and Bucky felt his lips turn up.

It wasn’t a smile. Not really. But it felt like the start of one.

He dug his spoon into his soup, and for the first time in a long time, his hand wasn’t shaking.

“Buck-” Steve started and that word, that tone, that slight uptick at the end, the faintest hint of a whine, was a damn balm on his twitchy mind. Bucky closed his eyes, trying to focus on the memories, on the flickering fragments of images and thoughts, but they were gone in an instant. In their wake, instead of terror or anger, there was just a sensation of calm.

“Stop bellyachin’,” Bucky said, getting his spoon to his mouth. Tomato soup tasted different. He was pleased, more that he could recognize the difference than with any pleasure at the new taste. “You used to be more direct, Steve.”

“Hey, now,” Steve said, his mouth stretching in a grin. He pushed Bucky’s glass closer to his hand. Bucky rolled his eyes, but picked it up anyway. The honest pleasure on Steve’s face made it worth the trouble.

Bucky glanced at Sam. “Don’t know you so much,” he said. The glass clattered a bit when he set it down, and he appreciated it that no one mentioned it. “But you gotta nudge him.”

Sam’s eyebrows arched high, his teeth flashing in a grin. “You don’t say,” he said, leaning back against the counter. He folded his arms over his chest, his head tipping to the side. “I’m not much of a nudger, myself. Man’s going to go in a direction or not, it’s not my place to put him there.”

Bucky shook his head. “You’re gonna die of boredom waiting for him to get there,” he said. He took another bite of the soup.

“Whose side are you on?” Steve asked, and his ears were red, just like they had been when Bucky had teased him, half a century ago. “Really. Whose-”

“The side of whoever gets you to stop hoverin’ over me when I’m sleeping,” Bucky said. “It’s damn weird, Steve.”

“Pardon me for wanting to take care of you,” Steve said, and he was grinning now, full and bright.

“You want him hovering over me, instead? Thanks. Here I thought we were friends,” Sam said. He set his own bowl of soup on the table.

“Won’t be hovering with you,” Bucky said, and eating was easier now.

Steve covered his face with a hand. “Thanks, Buck. Really. Thank you-”

“You never could get a date on your own,” Bucky pointed out, and Steve threw his hands in the air.

“Why were we friends again?”

“’Cause you needed someone dumb enough to get you out of the scrapes you got yourself in,” Bucky told him, and it had the weight of truth in his mouth. At least a partial truth, because the rest of it was there in Steve’s face, in the way he wouldn’t give up and wouldn’t let go. Bucky smiled.

“Really, Buck-”

Sam was laughing as he leaned over, his fingers ghosting against the line of Steve’s jaw. “Hey,” he said, tipping Steve’s head up, and all of Steve’s protests died unspoken. “Don’t insult your wingman.”

And then he bent his head, and Steve met him halfway. Bucky watched them kiss for a couple of seconds, then went back to his soup. He had a feeling he was going to be seeing that a lot, and his lunch was getting cold.


	13. Phil Vs. Internet Fandom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Anon: Phil and Clint and Fandom
> 
> Canon to the Toasterverse, Phil/Clint
> 
> And yes, I know that the patron saint of lost causes is St. Jude, roll with it for the joke, okay? 8)

“Did you know there’s porn of me online?”

Phil’s pen scraped across the page. “No,” he said at last, and it took him far too long to dredge up that single word. Some discussions with Clint were like getting a concussion while drunk; he could almost feel the brain damage setting in but couldn’t work up any concern about it. He set his pen aside. “Is this something you knew about and participated in, or something that was done without your knowledge or consent?” he asked, because that was really the first priority.

He did not allow himself to think about what the next priorities were. Probably murder if this question wasn’t answered properly, but he doubted that was going to be necessary. Clint didn’t seem upset or angry. Just amused.

Clint threw himself onto Phil’s couch. “Aw, are you going to defend my honor?” he asked, grinning as he folded his hands over his flat stomach. “That’s a losing fight there, Phil.”

Phil arched an eyebrow in his direction. “I’m good at those.” He leaned back in his chair, studying Clint. “They’re kind of a specialty.”

“They are, aren’t there?” Clint grinned. “St. Phil, Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”

“Can we go back to the porn?” Phil asked. Clint’s smile took on a distinctly dirty cast, and Phil sighed. “On topic, please.”

“The topic is porn, sir,” Clint pointed out.

“Yes, I got that much.” Phil leaned his chin on one hand. “And why is the topic porn?”

“Did you know that people draw pictures of me naked?” Clint asked, gleeful. “And post them online?”

Phil stared at him. “Yes,” he said, and went back to his paperwork.

“Phil.”

“I have actual work to do here, Clint.”

“Phil. People draw pictures of me with my clothes off.” Clint threw his arms wide. “There’s whole galleries of this stuff. People have spent a lot of time drawing my dick. This is amazing.”

“You’re a public figure, Clint, so, yes. It happens.” Phil’s eyes slid up. “You seem less than concerned about this.”

“I generally look really, really hot,” Clint said, tipping his head in Phil’s direction. “I think it’s a fair trade off. If they’re going to invade my privacy, they damn well should make me look good.”

Phil’s head fell into his hands. “Do I even want to know how this came to your attention?” he asked. Before Clint could reply, he held up a hand. “Stark, or Lewis?”

“Wow, you are a suspicious bastard,” Clint said. He stretched, and Phil couldn’t help but appreciate the way that Clint’s shirt rode up. “It was Darcy. Tony and I go out of our way not to discuss porn. It’s safer that way.”

Phil rubbed his forehead. “Of course it was Darcy,” he said, his voice dark. “I’ve asked you to stop talking to that woman.”

“Sorry, you first ordered me to be her constant companion,” Clint pointed out. “I got into the habit of listening to her babble and now I find I’m attached.” He grinned. “Which makes this entirely your fault.”

“Trust me, I’m aware of this.”

“She has this blog-” Clint started and Phil reached for his antacids. “It’s fine, Phil, it’s not a porn blog.”

“I’m actually quite surprised.” Phil popped a couple of Tums in his mouth and chomped down on them.

“She just keeps the good stuff she finds online,” Clint said, his grin positively filthy.

“That’s inappropriate on so many levels.”

“Nah, she asked me before she-”

“Oh, GOD.”

“You can, too. Just giving you permission. I’m a good boyfriend that way.” Clint stretched one hand above his head, and he should not look as attractive as he did. But there was something about the relaxed slump of his body and the way he was grinning was just a bit too much for Phil.

He stood up. “I think I’ll give that a pass.”

“Well, if you do, just be aware, some people seem to think that because the Avengers live together, there’s hanky-panky going on in that tower.” Clint was giggling, his eyes squeezed shut. “I sleep with everyone, it would appear.”

“There was that one interview where you told the interviewer that you get a lot of action,” Phil pointed out.

“Not my best moment. But I found some really good stuff with Darcy. Lot of talented artists who severely overestimate the sized of-”

Phil leaned over, bracing a hand on either side of Clint’s shoulders. “Do not use SHIELD computers to look for porn,” he said, trying to sound stern.

“You need a better filter,” Clint said, wrapping a hand around the back of Phil’s neck. A slight tug brought Phil down, and he sank into the kiss, into the familiar sensation of Clint’s mouth and his hand, sliding beneath the back of Phil’s jacket. He was breathing hard when they finally broke apart, and he wasn’t surprised to find one knee resting on the edge of the couch

Clint’s eyes were closed, his lips parted. “Phil?” he whispered.

Phil kissed him again, not even trying to resist. That mouth would be the death of him one way or the other, and he was fine with that. “Clint?” he asked when he pulled back.

“I need to borrow twenty bucks so-”

Phil kissed him again. “Shut up, Barton.”

“No, seriously, I am totally going to commission someone to draw Hawkeye making out with a guy in a suit, it’ll be-” He was laughing as Phil kissed him, just to shut him up. But his body was shaking with laughter and Phil couldn’t resist way his fingers clung to Phil’s shirt and shoulders.

“I don’t even want to think about the sort of porn commission that you’d get for twenty dollars,” he said, when they broke apart. “I don’t- No.”

“No, it’s just I already borrowed most of it from Nat and Darcy,” Clint said, his eyes still dancing. “I just thought that you’d want to get in on the action.”

“Do you know what St. Philip is actually the patron saint of?” he asked, trying to hold back a smile.

“Office affairs?” Clint asked. “Please. Let it be office affairs.”

Phil’s eyes flicked up. “St. Philip is the patron saint of cooks and bakers,” he said. He leaned in, brushing his lips across Clint’s. “I know my job,” he whispered against Clint’s mouth.

He shifted, going to straighten up again, and Clint snagged his tie. His fingers, calloused and scarred, were always so careful with the silk, even as he wrapped it around his hand. “And you do it so well,” he agreed, grinning.


	14. Steve Draws Tony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For rose-of-gallifrey, who requested a bit of fluff with a Steve/Tony bent.
> 
> Slight sexytimes, Steve/Tony, canon to everything, shut up everything. 8)

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Steve said, trying not to smile. “Go back to sleep.”

Tony pried open an eye, peering at Steve over the pillow of his arm. “Doesn’t look like nothing,” he said, yawning into the crook of his elbow. “Looks like you’re drawing me while I’m asleep and defenseless.”

“You aren’t asleep, and you’re seldom defenseless,” Steve said, shifting so he could rest his sketchbook on his upthrust knee. “Hold still.”

“I was asleep when you started,” Tony pointed out. He tucked his head back down. “And you’re drawing naked pictures of me. This feels inappropriate for an American icon.”

“You weren’t sleeping, you were faking it and hoping that I wasn’t going to call you on it so you could sneak out of bed and go back to work,” Steve said. He reached for a harder stick of charcoal. “You’re just cranky because I caught you at it.”

“Also because you’re getting charcoal dust over my very expensive white sheets,” Tony said. He shifted, a little closer to the pile of pillows that filled the top half of their bed.

“Hold still,” Steve told him, his voice chiding.

“Why do you do this?” Tony asked, his eyes closing again. “You see me every day. You see me naked almost as often. Why do you have this need to record it?”

“I like drawing. I like you. It stands to reason I would like to draw you, don’t you think?” Steve asked. He looked up, letting his eyes play over Tony, his charcoal still on the paper as he studied his model. Tony was lying on his stomach, his arms folded under his cheek, the sheets tumbled at his waist, leaving his back bare in the low light. The muscles of Tony’s shoulders and back flexed as he shifted against the mattress.

Steve moved forward, leaning over to brush a kiss against Tony’s temple, letting his hand rest at the small of Tony’s back. His skin was warm under Steve’s fingers. “Hold still,” he whispered against Tony’s skin. Tony laughed, the sound muffled against his arms.

“Want me to kick the sheets off?” Tony offered, his teeth flashing in a wicked grin. “If you’re going to draw me for posterity, you should get the posterior in there.”

“Thanks, but I think this is perfect.” Steve knew that it wasn’t going to change the outcome, but he said it anyway, then sat back, rolling his eyes, as Tony kicked free of the blankets and sheets, arranging himself in a position that he clearly considered alluring. Steve covered his mouth with one hand, trying his best to hold back a laugh.

Tony gave him a look. “Well?” he asked, stretching his arms over his head. Steve stared at him. Tony wiggled his eyebrows.

“You look ridiculous,” Steve admitted.

Tony’s mouth gaped open. “Is that any way to talk to your model?” he asked, laughing.

“Ridiculous,” Steve repeated, his lips twitching.

“Fine.” Tony grabbed the sheets and dragged them back up, over his head. “See if I offer to pose for you again," the lump of blankets muttered.

Steve set his sketchbook aside, crawling across the bed. “Bet you will,” he said. He caught hold of one end of the sheet, tugging at it.

“Nope.” Tony held onto the sheets.

“You going to stay in there?” Steve asked, chuckling.

“Yes.”

Steve leaned over him. “I do need practice with fabric drape,” he admitted, his hands smoothing over Tony’s back. “But I’d prefer you.”

“You had your chance.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve sat back and waited. In a minute or so, Tony pushed the blankets away from his face, his cheeks flushed. “Okay, I didn’t think that through,” he admitted.

“Kinda figured.” Steve pulled the sheets away. “I have sketchbooks full of pictures of you,” he admitted.

“Really?” Tony asked, flopping down against the pillows, his back to Steve.

“Really,” Steve agreed. “I like drawing you.”

Tony didn’t say a thing, but when Steve’s hand smoothed up his arm, he leaned into the touch.

“I could draw you with my eyes closed,” Steve whispered, his lips quirking up. “I’ve memorized every line of your body, every plane of your face. Even before there was an us, I couldn’t help it.” He leaned over, kissing Tony on the angle of his shoulder. For a second, he let his lips linger there, against the skin. “I know how your hair falls when you've put your hands through it and how your shoulders rise when you’re tense. I know how your fingers move when you’re frustrated. I know how you set your legs when you’re tired, and how you hold your head when you’re faking it.”

Tony laughed. “Faking it?” he asked, his voice full of amusement.

“You fake it a lot,” Steve whispered against Tony’s neck. “And you know it.”

“I don’t think I appreciate being called a fake,” Tony said, rolling onto his back between Steve’s hands. He grinned up at Steve, his eyes dancing.

“See, you’re hearing this wrong,” Steve said, eyebrows arching.

“Oh, I am. How am I supposed to hear it?”

Steve leaned over, his mouth light on Tony’s, the kiss barely a kiss, barely a touch, but Tony arched up into it when Steve tried to pull back. “You are supposed to hear it as, I know you. Fake it out there all you want, mister, but here? With me?” Steve’s fingers slid over the skin of Tony’s forehead, brushing his hair away from his face. “I know you too well. So cut it out.”

Tony’s eyes slid over his face, brilliant eyes, quick and clever. “Maybe I like faking it with you,” he said.

Steve grinned, even as he went in for another kiss. Tony’s hands wrapped around his neck, around his back, tugging him down. “As long as you know that you’re not fooling anyone,” he said, the words little more than a breath against Tony’s jaw, against his neck. “Go nuts.”

“So, if you know me so well,” Tony said, nipping at Steve’s ear, “why spend so much time staring?”

“Haven’t you figured it out?” Steve leaned back. “Because I like looking at you.”

Tony grinned. “I am very hot.”

“And so modest.”

Tony pulled him down. “Show me your sketchbooks, Rogers.”

“Okay,” Steve agreed, already half gone, just from the contact.

“Especially the naughty ones.”

“I don’t have naughty ones.”

Laughing, Tony kissed him. “We’ll have to work on that.”


	15. Phil's Mom Has a Very Hard Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For catlinyemaker, who had some affection for my portrayal of Phil and his long-suffering family. 8)
> 
> Canon to the Toasterverse, set prior to the events of "Phil Coulson Wasn't Grown In A Lab." Gen.

“Someone likes the Avengers!”

Shirley Coulson chuckled. “Well, to be honest, Julie, doesn’t everyone?”

Julie laughed, her hands moving quickly as she continued ringing Shirley up. “Well, yes, but still.” Packages of balloons printed with Iron Man’s helmet, sheets of stickers, party hats shaped like Thor’s helmet and a pin-the-arrow-on-the-bullseye game were added to Shirley’s bag, one after another. Julie held up a pair of inflatable Hulk fists, her eyebrows arching.

“I think that they’ll suit me,” Shirley said, with a straight face.

Grinning, Julie finished up, tucking the last of the party supplies into the bag. She handed over the bulging bag, and Shirley added it to her already full cart. “Someone really likes the Avengers,” Julie said. “REALLY likes the Avengers.”

Shirley gave her cart a look, smiling. “When there are twins, you are lucky if they both adore the same things,” she pointed out. “I’m much happier with two of everything than I am trying to work out equal space for pirates and dinosaurs.” She paused. “That was a bad year. The cakes were…” Her lips pursed. “Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a poor baker try to decorate a cake with a pirate ship fighting a dinosaur. There were tears involved.”

“Sounds interesting at least,” Julie said. She checked her lane, but no one was waiting behind Shirley, so she leaned on her register as Shirley swiped her credit card. “They’re getting big now, aren’t they?”

“Growing like weeds,” Shirley agreed. She took the receipt from Julie. “And spoiled rotten.”

“As is proper for grandchildren,” Julie agreed. “Give them my best.”

“I will, thank you.”

Jason was waiting for her at the front door, the car pulled up to the curb right outside the store. “All set?: he asked, getting out of the car.

Shirley pulled the cart up next to the trunk as Jason popped it. “We’ve got to pick up the cake, and-” Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and she reached for it. She studied the face, her mouth pursing. “It’s Phil,” she said to her husband.

“Well, that’s a thing,” Jason said. “You should probably answer it.”

“I do not see why,” she said, even as she did. “Hello, who’s calling?” she asked, her voice crisp.

There was a faint laugh from her only son. “Hello, Mom.”

“I’m sorry, I think you have the wrong number. I have two precious daughters, and you sound like neither of them,” Shirley said. Next to her, Jason was chuckling as he loaded the bags into the trunk.

“Is this your way of saying it’s been too long since I’ve called?”

“Who is this?” Shirley asked, her lips twitching.

There was a faint, long-suffering sigh from the other end of the line. “Your son.”

“Do I have a son?” Shirley asked Jason.

“Mom…”

“I seem to recall one,” he said, raising his voice. “Hello, son!”

“He says hello,” Shirley said. “Apparently, he’s claiming you.”

“I appreciate that.” Phil sounded amused. “I’m sorry I haven’t called, Mom.”

“An actual visit would make up for it,” she said.

“I would like to,” he said, and she could almost hear the excuses coming. She found she had no patience for listening to them.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your call, Philip?” she asked, cutting him off.

“The boys’ birthday is coming up,” Phil said.

“So it is,” she said. “We were just picking up some things for their party, actually.”

“Big plans?”

“They seem to think so.” Shirley smiled. “They’re very excited. Your father has purchased so many toys it’s just obscene.”

“I regret nothing.”

“That’s what I was calling about. There’s a store at Stark Tower,” Phil said. “Sells Avengers licensed merchandise, a lot of it’s exclusive, things that aren’t sold anywhere else. I went by to check it out, and I think I found a few things for them. Action figure sets and a couple of shirts.”

“Everything matching?” Shirley asked.

“Yes, except I got the sweatshirt in green for Sam and blue for Bradley.” Phil paused. “That’s still right?”

“Sounds just about perfect,” Shirley said.

“Just about?”

“Perfect would be you bringing them yourself,” she said, as gentle as she could manage. “They miss you.”

“I miss them, too, but work’s-” Phil’s voice trailed away.

Shirley’s eyes closed. “Are you going to call them at least?” she asked. Her eyes met Jason’s and she shook her head. He shrugged, even as he started the car.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Call them,” Shirley said. “Really, Phil. If you can’t do it on their birthday, call them before. Don’t make them think you’ve forgotten. You don’t call them the way you used to, and they’re at a difficult age.” She paused, and continued, choosing her words carefully. “Since the mess in New York, I think they get scared some times. They’re just little boys, and the last time you stopped calling…” She let her voice trail off.

Phil was silent for a long moment. “I miss you all,” he said at last. “And I’ll call more often.”

“Please do,” Shirley said. “We love you, Phil.”

“I love you, too. I’ll get everything shipped out tomorrow, you should have it in a few days.”

“I’ll keep my eye out. Give my best to your boy.” She smiled, just a little, when the line went dead. Phil hated saying good-bye. Ever since he’d been a child, he’d resented, and often refused, having to say good-bye to her on the phone. As if he said good-bye, it would be final, and they would never see each other again. It was silly, but it was pure Phil. She’d never fought him about it; her line of work was full of superstitions. She hadn’t begrudged him his coping mechanisms.

She put her phone away. Jason was watching her out of the corner of his eye. “Nothing?” he asked at last.

“Nothing,” Shirley said, a trace of bitterness creeping into her voice. “He’s sending Avengers action figures for the boys.”

“They’ll be thrilled,” Jason said. “You know they will.”

Shirley sighed. “Yes, they will.” She shifted. Her hip ached most days, not too much to stop her from doing what she wanted to do. Just enough to remind her that lives were often cut short without warning. “How did we raise such a liar?” she asked Jason, letting her head fall back against the headrest.

“It’s a mystery,” Jason agreed. “It’s almost as if he learned how to be a scheming, deceptive, secretive person by osmosis.”

Shirley aimed a whack at his shoulder. “You are incorrigible,” she said.

“Just like my son,” Jason agreed.

She smiled. “What do you want to bet that he took Clint to help him shop?”

“And regretted it?”

“Oh, I have no doubt that he regretted it.” She smiled. “Let’s go home. We have a party to plan.”


	16. Running With Steve, Sam, and Carol

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From Jhoira, who requested: "* Steve Rogers and Carol Danvers are bros or * Sam Wilson and Carol Danvers are bros" I went with "Steve and Carol and Sam are bros."
> 
> Post-Cap 2 fic, not canon to any of my verses (yet), Gen.
> 
> Included generalized smack talking by a Bostonian and a New Yorker, because you know they would. YOU KNOW THIS.

“You know what I like best about running with Captain America?” Carol Danvers asked.

“No, what do you like best about running with Captain America?” Sam Wilson replied, grinning

“This isn’t going to end well for me, is it?” Steve Rogers said. They both ignored him, which took real effort, because they were running alongside him, Sam on his right and Carol on his left. They had a talent, however, for talking around him. One of these days, he was going to smack their heads together.

It was a pleasant thought. He had it often enough during these early morning runs.

“Having to wait at the corner of every street for the walk signal!” Carol said, glaring at Steve out of the corner of her eyes.

“We’re not running into traffic. It’s dangerous,” Steve pointed out.

“It’s pre-dawn,” Sam said. “What the hell traffic are you seeing here that we’re not, Cap?”

“It’s the law.”

“Jaywalking is the Massachusetts state sport,” Carol said.

“And we’re in New York.”

“Pissing off cabbies is the New York state sport,” Sam pointed out. “It’s got a great motto.”

“Yeah?” Carol asked, grinning. “What would that be?”

“I’m WALKING here!” Sam yelled at the sky.

“I regret introducing you two,” Steve said.

Carol leaned in, her teeth flashing in a brilliant grin. “You love us, Steve.”

“Really don’t,” Steve said, struggling against a smile of his own.

Sam made kissy noises, his arms pumping as he ran along on Steve’s other side. “You loooooooove us,” he said, his voice low and sultry.

“Wow, no,” Steve said. He considered stepping up the pace, but honestly, Carol could keep up with him, even if Sam couldn’t. And honestly, he was better off with Sam to distract Carol. And Sam would make them both regret it if they took off and left him behind.

His friends were fiendishly clever, when it came down to it.

“You know what we should do?” Carol asked. “If you want me to not break laws? We should consider doing this at a time that is not, I don’t know, brutally early.”

“C’mon soldier, I let you sleep til almost sunrise.”

“I am no longer in active service, thank you, and it’s airman,” Carol said, her nose in the air.

“That explains the laziness,” Steve said, struggling to keep a straight face. Carol gasped, an audible intake of breath, her brilliant eyes gleaming as she stared at him.

“Oh, he didn’t,” Sam said, his mouth gaping open. “Tell me he did not just go there.”

“Oh, he did,” Steve said, putting his hands up above his head.

“How do you run with balls that big?” Carol asked. “Don’t they get in your way?”

“I adjust my stride,” Steve said, trying not to laugh. It was hard.

“She could throw you. I think I should point this out. She could throw you into space. Can you breathe in space? I don’t think you can breathe in space,” Sam said, his ability to continue talking despite how long and how fast they’d run very impressive. “If you could, I’m sure you would’ve brought it up by now. Because you do bring up the things you do.”

“Especially if there was Nazi-punching involved. The man’s a braggart,” Carol agreed. She cracked her knuckles, one hand pounding into the flat of her other palm. “I, meanwhile, am the soul of modesty.”

“I’m trying to back you up here,” Sam told her, sounding distinctly disapproving, “but there is nothing I can do with a lie that big and that blatant, Danvers.”

“I know you can’t breathe in space,” Carol told him. “That pretty little set of wings doesn’t come with a helmet, now does it?”

“I’ll take my chances,” Sam said, unconcerned. “You kill me, you’re stuck dealing with him alone.”

“I’ll just send him back to Avengers Tower,” Carol said. “He’s the team’s problem, anyway. I just walk him sometimes.”

“That’s real civic minded of you,” Sam agreed.

“He helps me pick up guys,” Carol explained. “You go running with Captain America, every guy in the city comes out of the woodwork to try and prove that they can keep up. Even though they absolutely cannot.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Sam. “That’s how we ended up with you.”

“No idea what you’re talking about, lady. I was here first,” Sam pointed out. “I got no idea where you came from.”

“Space,” Carol said, considering her fingernails without missing a step.

“If you’ve got enough breath to talk, we’re not running fast enough,” Steve pointed out.

“I’d punch him, but I don’t have the energy,” Sam said.

“Want me to give you a piggy-back ride for the rest of the way back?” Carol asked him.

“No, you run into traffic.”

“Like you said, what traffic?”

“I love that this is your response,” Steve said. “Not that you wouldn’t get him killed, but that it probably won’t be an issue.”

“Says the man who jumped off the back of a burning plane two days ago,” Sam said.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Every one of us has thrown him or herself out of a burning jet,” he pointed out.

“Excuse you,” Carol said. “Planes do not catch fire in my presence, it is a matter of professional respect.”

“People in this conversation who can fly, raise your hands,” Sam said. He and Carol raised their hands, and Steve had to stifle a laugh.

“I don’t see the problem,” he said, grinning as they came around the corner. “I haven’t hit the ground yet.”

“He takes about a year and a half off of my very mortal life every time he pulls this shit,” Sam said.

“I’d say we should just let him fall one of these days,” Carol said. “But Tony’d get him if we don’t.”

“He sleeps until at least noon most days,” Sam said. “We got a chance to make a point if we do it early enough.”

“Then one of you would have to deal with him,” Steve pointed out. He waited for that to sink in, with Carol laughing out loud and Sam breathing hard as he kept pace with them, fighting for each step and succeeding, because he was Sam and he did not give in easily. If at all. “You talk about babysitting me? Who do you think is babysitting them most days?.”

“Eh, Tony’s easy enough,” Sam huffed out. “Bottle of scotch and a malfunctioning DVR would keep him out of trouble for a week or so.”

Steve gave him a look. “One word,” he said.

“Bring it on, Cap, you can’t scare me.”

“Clint,” Steve said.

“Oh, hell, no. Carol can-”

Carol’s finger flew to her nose. “Not it!”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Run,” Steve said, and they were all laughing as they headed home.


	17. Peter Parker Makes Poor Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For anon, who requested some Peter Parker Spider-Man goodness.
> 
> Canon to the Toasterverse, gen

Peter stared at the tree. “I don’t want to come up there. But I will if I have to.” He leaned in. “I am warning you. I will come up there.”

The tree did not respond. Peter wondered if he really wanted to go up there. Again.

The flicker of light, in the corner of his eye, caught his attention a split second before it coalesced into a burst of heat, and then the Human Torch was hovering in the air, just above Peter’s head. “Hey, Webhead. Whatcha doing in the park in the middle of the night?”

“Meditating,” Peter told him. “And I need serenity and solitude to do it right. So you should go now.”

Laughing, Johnny Storm landed, his flames dissipating in a heartbeat. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Go away.”

Johnny looked around. “No. Seriously. What are you doing here?”

“Shoo. Flame on, or whatever it is you do, go.” Peter made a shooing motion with his hands, flipping his fingers in Johnny’s direction. “Away with you. Off you go. So long, farewell, auf widersehen, good-night!” he sang.

“Is there a crime happening that I can’t see?” Johnny held up a hand, flames swirling around his wrist and up his fingers. “I figured there was crime. But no. It’s just you. Talking to a tree.”

“I’m communing with nature,” Peter said. “Need a private moment with the tree.”

“Buddy, if you’re looking for privacy, you shouldn’t wear that outfit. Kinda loud.”

Behind the shield of his mask, Peter’s mouth pursed. “Do you really expect me to take fashion advice from you? You. Of all people. You.”

“Me,” Johnny agreed. He peered behind the tree. “I have style.”

“You’re wearing blue pajamas.”

“Well, the uniform was Reed’s idea,” Johnny said. “And my sister has this thing about family bonding, sisters, man. They mess up your life.”

“You’re wearing pajamas. Blue footie pajamas,” Peter said. “I think there’s a sippy cup of milk and a plate of cookies waiting for you back at home.”

“Okay, first of all, you’d better not be smack talking cookies, second of all, yes, there is, and they’re fucking delicious, and third, that’s really big talk for a guy hanging out in Central Park after dark wearing spandex,” Johnny said. He crossed his arms over his chest. “C’mon, man, what are we doing here?”

“Waiting for that guy with the really good hot dogs to bring his cart out,” Peter told him.

Johnny stared at him. “It’s three am.”

“Gotta line up early, he runs out.” Peter leaned back against the tree, his arms crossed over his chest. “Nice seeing you. So sad you had to be going.”

“Spidey?” Johnny clasped his shoulder. “You stand no chance at making me leave right now.” He leaned in. “Literally. No chance.”

“Fine,” Peter said, scraping a hand over his masked face. “There’s a kitten in the tree.”

Johnny blinked at him. “What.”

Peter pointed upwards. “Cat. Small cat. Little baby cat. In the tree.”

Johnny considered that in silence for a long moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because that’s what I’m doing here.”

“You’re…” Johnny stopped. Cupped a hand over his forehead. “You’re in Central Park at three am because-”

“Now you know and you can leave,” Peter pointed out.

“There is literally a cat up a tree?” Johnny asked.

“Literally. There is,” Peter said. “Look, I’m tired, so I’d like to just-”

“Why is it still up there? If that’s why you’re here, why haven’t you already gone up there to get it?”

“It’s seriously feisty,” Peter admitted.

Johnny’s head tipped back. “So you- Not only are you saving a cat from a tree-”

“Shut up.”

“But you’re FAILING at it?” Johnny asked, choking on a laugh. He grinned at Peter, his face lighting with an unholy sort of glee. Peter stared at him, unimpressed.

“Fie. Sty,” he repeated.

“You want me to save you?”

“Please do not light the kitten on fire,” Peter said.

Johnny’s mouth gaped open. “What the- I’m not going to- Why would you say that? Why would you even think that?”

“Because that’s what you do.” Peter gestured at him with both hands. “You fire. That is it. That is the limits of what you do. You make things burn.” He moved his hands up above him, towards the tree, his whole body angled in the direction of the kitten. “This. Should not be on fire. So, you are not of any help here.”

“I really don’t think I need powers to get a cat out of a tree,” Johnny said, and he sounded so condescending that Peter considered throwing something at his head. Like a park bench.

“Didn’t ask for your help.”

“But clearly, you need it.” Smirking, Johnny flamed, lifting off the ground with a quick burst of heat. “Don’t worry. I’m here. Here to save you.”

“Aaand clearly, I’m interrupting something.”

Peter’s eyes squeezed shut, cursing the lack of a spider sense warning as Tony Stark came to an almost delicate landing just a few feet away. He was carrying a massive cup topped with a domed lid and a straw, and he flipped his visor up, taking a sip as he walked over. “Date night, boys?”

“I have a girlfriend,” Peter told him.

“So did I,” Tony pointed out.

“I have a girlfriend now, and I love her,” Peter said.

“Just saying, leave your options open.”

“I think I can see it,” Johnny said, staring into the thick foliage. He floated through the air, trailing flames in his wake as he got a look from a different angle.

“See what?” Tony asked. “What are you boys up to?”

“Nothing,” Peter said. “Super heroics. Do-gooding.”

“Rescuing a cat from a tree,” Johnny explained.

“Great, now I will never hear the end of this.” Peter glared at him. “Why would you possibly-”

“Because you lying about it just makes it more suspicious. Ah, here we go.” Johnny flew up above the tree and cut his flames, plummeting into the leaves with a crash.

“Boy’s got more guts than brains,” Tony said. He sipped his cup, the straw tucked in one corner of his mouth. “You could do better.”

“Why are you here?” Peter asked.

Tony tapped one metal clad finger against the cup. “I wanted a quick pick-me-up. Good spot, twenty-four hours a day, on the other side of the river. Was just flying back home when Jarvis picked up your little tete-a-tete. Figured I’d stop by, see if you needed any help.”

“We do not need help,” Peter said. “I don’t need help. It’s a cat.”

Johnny fell out of the tree, landing hard on his ass.

“Cat’s a little feisty,” Peter said.

“Holy FUCK,” Johnny said.

Peter held up a hand, his finger and thumb nearly touching. “Tiny bit feisty.”

Johnny pointed upwards. “That is not a cat,” he said, his voice shaking. “That is a hellbeast.”

Tony looked up. “I can’t believe I stopped to watch you two idiots try and fail to rescue a cat from a tree.”

“You can leave at any time,” Peter said. “Both of you.”

Tony sipped his coffee, his lips pursed around the straw. After a long moment, he raised his head, just long enough to say, “Nope.”

“Please go away,” Peter said.

“Did you know,” Tony asked, his voice considering, “that SHIELD keeps track of those of us in shiny do-gooding type costumes? And if there’s a group that gathers and they can’t determine why, they’ll usually end up sending out a strike team, just in case?”

Peter stared at him. “How many constitutes a ‘group?’”

Tony took another long sip, the straw rattling at the bottom of his mostly empty cup. “Three,” he said at last.

Peter threw his hands in the air. “If you KNOW this, why did you STOP?”

“I like to make sure that Coulson’s earning his pay.”

“Wow, you raise dickishness to an art form,” Johnny commented. He hadn’t bothered to get off the ground. “You’ve got like, a black belt in asshole.”

Tony grinned. “I like to be the best at whatever I choose to do,” he agreed. “Want me to get the cat?”

“I want you to call of SHIELD.”

“I’ll get the cat.”

“Good luck with that.”


	18. Clint Barton Should Not Be a Child Right Now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Anotherlongstoryshort, who asked for deaged Clint. It was intended as hilariously adorable.
> 
> It did not end up that way.
> 
> Warnings for extended discussion of physical and emotional child abuse, physical violence against a child resulting in non fatal but fairly graphic injury, and feelings of abandonment and fear.
> 
> Not canon to any of my stories or verses. Clint/Phil.

There was only one rule: Get up. 

If he stayed down, it didn't save him. It didn't protect him. It just made it easier for the bastards to hurt him. He wasn't interested in making it easier for anyone.

So Clint Barton had one rule: if someone knocked him down, he was going to get back up.

Someone was crying, one of the little kids, probably, maybe the boy with the huge dark eyes and the blue t-shirt who'd been beside him. Maybe the little girl who didn't even seem to know how to talk. Clint didn't know. He didn't know how he'd ended up here, and neither did anyone else. Kids. Dozens. Hundreds, maybe. Kids. He didn't know any of them, he didn't know where he was or how he got here.

But he knew this guy was a bastard who kicked kids. And Clint hated him.

So when the man backhanded him, knocking him back to the floor, Clint got up again. And again, and again.

The bald man was huge, and threatening, and he knew it, even as he reached down and pulled Clint off of the floor. His fingers wrapped around Clint's neck, shaking him, and Clint struggled to breathe.

“You,” he growled, “are annoying me, little boy.”

Clint grinned at him. “Good,” he managed with the last of his breath. He wanted to scream for his brother, he wanted to scream for help, but he was pretty sure that if there was help to be found, it would have already come. He shouldn't have gotten involved. He shouldn't have gotten between the monster and the little girl he was kicking. 

But Clint was dumb. Hadn't everyone always told him. Clint was dumb.

“Skurge.”

The blond woman in the odd green dress was a snake, Clint had figured that out by now. She looked at the kids in disdain and even if she didn't hit anyone, she hadn't stopped the huge bald man from doing it. But now, she laid a hand on his arm, her fingers just brushing his skin. "I went through all the trouble to make these children," she said, her red lips curling up. "Surely you don't want to ruin all my hard work by disposing of them." One eyebrow arched. "They make such excellent, easily controlled hostages."

There was a moment of stillness, and Clint struggled to breathe, clawing at the fingers that were locked on his throat. And then he was released, tumbling to the ground to hit hard, one leg bent awkwardly underneath him. He tried to break his fall with his hands, and one wrist twisted as it took the impact.

For a second, he just lay there, willing himself not to scream, not to cry. The pain was searing, and he concentrated on that, on feeling the throb of his bones and the white hot jolt of his wrist. He forgot to breathe, and when he remembered, that hurt, too.

The floor shuddered as the man stepped away, and Clint flinched, waiting for a kick, to the ribs or the head, but nothing came. Just the slow retreat of footsteps, getting ever further away from him. Clint rolled over, pressing his forehead against the cold stone, his knees drawn up under him. He folded himself into a ball, huddling around the pain in his wrist as if he could absorb it with the rest of his body if he tried hard enough.

Pain mixed with rage and shame, and it was a toxic cocktail in the pit of his stomach.

“All of you,” the woman said, raising her voice just a little, just enough to make the laughter in her words obvious. “Let's not make this more difficult, shall we?” 

Clint heard the kids shifting, crying, whispering. He dragged himself up, and slowly, painfully, he found a bolt hole behind the big marble staircase. He'd woken up there, the first time, which made sense. Barney always said that Clint was good at finding hiding places.

This one was empty, except for a massive, adult sized bow. Clint leaned his back up against the side of the stairs, letting his good hand rest on the bow. It wasn't much of a weapon, but it was more of a weapon than he'd had.

Time faded to a gray emptiness, as he tried to stay awake. He didn't know if he managed it. It took a massive, floor shaking impact to bring him back around. His head came up, just in time to hear the blond woman cursing someone or something, something like Avengers.

"Go," the woman snapped at the bald man. "Stop them before they-"

There was an explosion, a massive bang that shook the building, and then the mountain of a man was off and running. Clint huddled against the side of the stairs, loathing a hot ember in his throat. He couldn't see what was happening, the angle was bad, and kids were scrambling out of the way, up the stairs, streaming around him, blocking his view.

But he saw a big blond man with a red cape slam into the bald man, lifting him clear off of his feet.

The woman was cursing, her hands coming up, green light curling around her fingers. Clint didn't know what it was, but he knew it wasn't good, and he knew he hated her.

His fingers closed around the bow. Too big, and heavy, he'd never be able to draw it, even if he had arrows. Even if he knew how to use it, which he didn't. But it was solid and somehow familiar in his hand, and he forced his fingers to close on the lower limb. He darted forward, driving the tip of the bow between the woman's legs, at knee level.

Before she had time to understand what Clint was doing, he wrapped his arms around the bow and shoved forward with all the strength he could manage. The bow hooked on the outside of one knee, and snapped hard against the back of the other. Unprepared for the pressure, she jerked to the side as her knee gave way.

Clint tumbled forward, using his weight when his strength failed, and the bow went with him, and the woman went down too, hitting the marble floor with a shriek. The green light that had been collecting around her fingers shattered like glass, fragments raining in all directions, then disappearing.

She cursed, trying to get up. But the hall was a sea of blue uniforms, and she didn't even have time to roll over before they were on her. Clint scrambled out of the way, curling into a ball under a display case, struggling to control the way he was shaking.

He wanted Barney so badly that all he could manage was to drop his head down and cry.

*

They were in some sort of museum. When the threat was over, he got to look around enough to figure that out. Clint didn't remember how he'd gotten here, and he hadn't managed to find a way to get out. He kept looking, though, as more and more adults in uniform swarmed over the hall, corralling all the kids, not letting anyone leave.

Clint had no intention of getting caught.

He was careful. He slipped in behind other kids, pretended to be standing with some of the adults when anyone was looking. He'd taken a blanket from a pile and dragged it around his head and shoulders, hiding under it whenever it seemed like he'd attracted attention. He kept his head down, letting the blanket shield his face. Everything hurt, everything, and there were cops and people in unfamiliar uniforms everywhere, and Clint was desperate to find Barney and get out before either of them got caught.

“Hey there.”

Clint flinched. The woman stepped in front of him, a medical bag over her shoulder. She leaned over, just a little, just enough to peek under Clint's blanket cowl. “Have you been checked over yet, honey?”

“Yes,” Clint said. He pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and couldn't help but flinch as his swollen wrist bounced against the folds of the blanket.

“Okay,” she said, but she reached for his hand.

Clint jerked his arm away from her. “Get away from me.” His shoulders up, his head down, he backed away, his teeth bared. 

The woman held up her hands in a placating manner. “Okay, okay,” she said, smiling. “I just want to see your arm. Can I take a look?”

Clint backed up, his heart pounding in his chest. “It's okay,” he said, trying for a smile. His bruised cheek hurt, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. “I have to go. My brother's waiting.”

“We'll find him,” the woman said. She reached a hand towards him. “Come on. We can look together. What does he look like?”

“He's, uh, he's-” His breath rattled in his throat and he wanted to scream Barney's name. He knew better. But he wanted to. “He's over there, I think, I'll just-”

“Baby, you need to come with me. We need to get-”

Clint's voice rose in a howl. “Get away from me!”

“I can't-”

She reached for him, and Clint knocked her hand away, aiming a quick kick at her ankle, but she was quicker than him, and bigger than him, and panic clawed at Clint's throat.

“That's enough.”

Clint turned, one fist lashing out with all the force he could manage, rage and fear giving him strength where his body failed him. He didn't even see what he was aiming at, just a black blur, and he struck out with everything he had left.

The man caught his arm without any visible effort. His fingers wrapped around Clint's forearm, somehow missing all the sore spots “Don't,” he said, his voice soft, and it was a voice that was used to being obeyed. Instinctively, Clint braced himself, waiting for the blow. Waiting to be pulled off of his feet and thrown down again. He knew it was coming, and he flinched from it.

The man's hand slid away from Clint's arm with such startling suddenness that Clint didn't really understand what had happened.

The man smiled. “Don't hurt yourself,” he said. “Don't. Hurt yourself.” He crouched down, his arms folded on one upthrust knee. “I'm Phil. This is Holly.” His smile stretched, and he looked like a dork, but somehow, that was comforting. “She's a paramedic. I'm not.”

“But he's still pretty good when you're in a bad place. Hi,” the woman said, smiling. Clint's eyes darted between them, but he didn't say a word.

Phil nodded at Clint's arm. “Can I see that?” he asked.

Clint tucked his arm up against his chest, his fingers spread wide over his wrist. He wasn't sure if he was supporting the limb or just trying to hide it. “No,” he said. He took a half step backwards, his foot dragging awkwardly over the ground. Pain shot up his leg, a stab of pain that made him grit his teeth.

Phil didn't move. “It looks like it hurts.”

Clint's lips pulled back from his teeth. “I've had worse,” he spat out.

Phil was silent for a moment. “I'm sorry to hear that,” he said. It was quiet, but his eyes were sad, his mouth tight. 

“Whatever.” His eyes flicking up towards Holly, who was standing quietly behind Phil. “I don't need your help. My brother's coming for me.”

“That's good. I'm glad that you're not alone. That you have your brother.” Phil looked back at Holly. “Can you go get a cooler from one of the emergency workers?”

“Sure,” she said. “You-”

“It's okay,” Phil said. He turned back to Clint as Holly headed off through the crowd. “I'm hungry,” he said, his tone conversational. “Are you?”

“No,” Clint said, too fast, too loud. His shoulders came up, certain this man could hear the lie there.

Phil's eyes were hooded. “Okay,” he said, easily. “Your brother is here? With you?”

“Yes.” Too fast again. Clint was tired. Too tired. 

“Okay,” Phil repeated. “What's his name? I'll find out if he's been checked in yet.”

Barney wouldn't be caught. Not even by these people. Barney was smart, and fast. He would've gotten out already. He'd come back for Clint. Clint's shoulders came up again. Probably. “Bill,” he said, his voice dull. “His name is Bill. Mine's Charlie.”

Suddenly so tired that he couldn't be bothered to keep himself upright, Clint let his knees buckle. He was somehow not surprised when the man moved, faster than Clint had thought it possible for him to move. Clint didn't bother fighting it when the man caught him. He was only vaguely aware of his body being lifted up, off the ground, and he curled into the man's shoulder.

He buried his face in the man's coat, and tried not to cry.

“It's okay,” Phil said, his voice soft. His arms adjusted, shifting Clint's weight against his chest. He straightened up, and Clint's head swam with the movement. “It's gonna be okay, Charlie. We'll find your brother. I'm sure he's here.”

Clint said nothing, his good hand clutching at Phil's jacket. He wished he could believe it, But he didn't think he could.

“Is he all right?”

“Yes.” Phil's voice rumbled through his chest, against Clint's cheek where it was pressed close. “Let's get him something into him.”

Clint was aware of being held, of being warm and safe, blanket drawn over him, strong arms supporting him, and he was too tired to fight it any more. When he was lowered down, he clawed at Phil's jacket, desperate not to be abandoned again. Phil stilled.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he said, very patient about it. “But I want you to sit down and drink something. Eat something. I'm not leaving you.” He pulled back, far enough for Clint to see his face. “No one is going to hurt you again.”

That was a promise no one could make. Or keep. Clint's fingers slid free, hands falling to his sides. 

If Phil noticed the defeat that swept over him, he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he sat Clint down on the edge of a lowered ambulance stretcher. There was a large cooler sitting there, and Phil flipped it open. It was full of sodas, waters, cookies, candies, a bounty of snacks. Clint stared at it, aware of how empty his stomach was, and he swallowed, his mouth watering. “How about an orange soda?” Phil asked, as Clint settled back. “It's the favorite of both my nephews.”

Clint shrugged.

Phil held out the can. “It's cold,” he said. “And it's still sealed. Are you thirsty?”

Clint's tongue came out, flicking over his lips. “Sure,” he said at last, still huddled into himself. But his mouth was painfully dry, and his stomach growled. 

“Can I open it for you?” Phil asked, and Clint shrugged.

“Okay,” he muttered. But when Phil handed it over, he wrapped his good hand around it, his fingers shaking as he brought it to his mouth. The first sip was painful. After that, it was just perfect, so perfect that his eyes watered. He gulped it down, ignoring it when Phil tried to slow him down.

“Okay,” Phil said. “Let's have something to eat, and then we need to have you-”

“Agent Coulson?”

Phil looked up. There was another man waiting there, a big blonde man in a bright blue uniform with a star in the middle of his chest. He was holding a bow in one hand, the bow that Clint had used. “Agent Coulson?” the man repeated, holding it up.

Phil's face was tight. “Charlie, stay here for a second, okay? I need to check on something.”

Clint tucked his legs up under the blanket, ignoring the ache in his knee. “Okay,” he said, clutching his soda can. He folded himself forward, ignoring the blonde man's gaze.

Phil and the newcomer moved away, to the far side of the stairs, and Clint waited only a second or two, wrestling with what was left of his conscience. And then he was scrambling off of the stretcher and up the steps, staying low, being as quiet as he possibly could. Pressed low, he crept up, hiding behind the bannister.

“-we don't know.” The blonde man's voice was lower and more steady than Phil's easy enough to tell apart.

“Thor thinks it can be undone?”

“Thor's certain of it.” 

“All of these are-”

“Yes. Every one of them, Thor says they've all got the same traces. She apparently decided it was easier to control children than it was to deal with adults.”

Phil's sigh was audible. “Including our people. Dammit.” 

“We'll find them.”

“I know, but... I don't like it.”

“We've already located Natasha. Not to many little red haired girls who curse at us in Russian. Clint's harder. Short of running around, calling 'Clint Barton, where are you?' we're stuck checking them one by one, and we don't have much to go by, other than a name and eye and hair color.”

Clint froze on the stairs, his heart in his throat.

“The others will be easier,” Phil said. “But Clint? We don't have a photo. No relatives to help us.”

Clint clapped a hand over his mouth, nausea curling in his stomach. He rolled over, and for a second, he was afraid that he'd made some noise, because they both fell silent. But after a moment, the blonde man spoke again.

“We will find him, Phil. He's got a lot to answer for, after all.”

Fear ripped through him, and Clint was up and scrambling back down the stairs, no longer caring about noise, no longer caring about anything. He shot down the stairs, nearly falling several times, but he made it to the bottom, somehow still on his feet. 

The cooler was there, open and tempting and he didn't even hesitate. He grabbed handfuls of candy bars and cookies, everything he could get his hands on, jamming it into his pockets as quickly as he could. When his pockets were full, he shoved them into the neck of his shirt, a lifetime of shoplifting forgotten in a moment of desperation.

And then he was up and running. Maybe Barney wasn't coming for him. But that had never stopped Clint before.

*

The smell woke him up.

Clint opened his eyes, and they were gritty with exhaustion and dust, stinging with each blink. For a second or two, he just wanted to throw up, but the smell settled his stomach. He stared up at the domed windows above him, trying to get some idea of how long he'd been here, how long he'd been asleep, but the dim light beyond them could've been dawn or dusk or just clouds. 

Clint peered over the edge of the scaffolding, trying to stay out of sight.

Phil was sitting in the middle of the floor. Next to him, there was a plate, a real china plate like his mom used to use, despite how many his father had broken in the bad times. And it was full of food. The smell of fried onions and grilled beef curled through the air, and Clint swallowed hard against a suddenly dry throat.

His stomach growled, so loudly that Clint couldn't believe that Phil didn't hear it.

Phil didn't look up. He just waved a hand at the plate. “Your favorite,” he said, his voice quiet. “Cheeseburger with grilled onions, lettuce, and tomato. Onion rings with salt and mustard.” He reached out and nudged a frosted glass closer to the plate. “Chocolate shake, with extra whipped cream, and the cherry at the bottom instead of the top.”

He didn't look up. He didn't need to. “Want to come down and get something to eat?”

Clint didn't move. He barely breathed. His chest felt tight with what little air he managed to take in, thin little pants through his nose. 

Phil's sigh was audible. “You hit every floor,” he said, his tone soft and easy. There was no anger in it, no frustration. “Looking for a way out. You started low and work your way up. You tried windows, doors, everything, but even the emergency exits were locked down. Sorry. But we can't risk any of you getting out, and not being here for when we get you help.

“So you moved upward, floor by floor, and you did a very good job of staying out of sight and ducking everyone.” His head tipped back, his eyes pinning Clint in place. “But you always go up. When there's no way out. You choose the highest ground you can. And here, that means a scaffolding to the top of the rotunda dome, where some workmen had been doing repair work after hours. You climbed up. Because no one ever looks up, and you like to be high.”

Clint didn't say a word. He wasn't sure he could.

Phil smiled, just a little. “I wish you hadn't, this time,” he said, his voice gentle. “Because that had to have been hell, climbing all that way with only one good arm. And getting down is not going to be easy, not with how badly you're hurt.” There was a pause. “You have to know that, Clint.”

It was the first time Phil had said his name, and up until that exact second, until the moment that his name passed Phil's lips, Clint had believed he could escape. That he could get out, that Barney was waiting for him outside somewhere. But Phil said his name, and that hope died, collapsing in his chest, leaving a taste of ash and copper in his throat.

Still, he sucked in a breath, and another one. “Barney will get me down,” he managed. His nose was running, and he didn't even have the strength to wipe it. He sniffled, and immediately regretted it, because now he sounded like a whiny little kid, like he was CRYING because he was scared and alone.

He squeezed his eyes shut, hating himself so much because he was crying, and there was no longer any point in pretending he wasn't.

“Clint, he can't.”

“He can. He's stronger than he looks. He can do it,” Clint managed. “If he wants to, he can.”

For a long moment, he heard nothing, just the thick sound of his own breathing, and then Phil's voice came again, even quieter this time. “Your brother isn't coming. You know that.”

Clint curled up, a little tighter, burying his face in his folded arms. His wrist was a dull throb now, that he could feel right through to his teeth. It echoed along every inch of his frame, and it still wasn't as bad as the way his chest ached at the thought of how alone he was. “Shut up,” he gritted out.

“Clint. Barney isn't coming.”

“Shut UP,” he screamed, the words muffled by his arms. “He WILL. When I need him, he ALWAYS comes. Always, always, always-” He gagged on the word, sobbing hard now, no space to breathe between the rush of it, and he stopped talking.

He heard the creak of the metal and wood, heard Phil start to climb, and he panicked, shoving back off of the scaffolding, into the alcove at the base of the dome. His foot kicked out, hitting a pan or a brush or something, and it clattered over the edge, all the way down to the floor to hit with a crack. 

Phil's head appeared over the edge a moment later, his face flushed, his eyes wide. But he saw Clint and relaxed, even as he folded his arms on top of the scaffolding. “It's time to come down.”

Clint made a face at him. “Make me,” he said, and it sounded like Barney, and he was happy about that.

“I can,” Phil said. He still wasn't angry, wasn't screaming or threatening, even though Clint was causing him problems, even though Clint WAS a problem. “You know I can force you to come down. But I'd really prefer you chose to come down.”

Clint huddled against the back of the alcove, his legs braced in front of him, his shoulders up. “No,” he said.

Phil held out a hand. “I will not let anyone hurt you,” he said, his voice calm. But there was a sad, aching desperation in his eyes that was at distinct odds with the confidence in his words.

Like this hurt him.

Clint rocked forward, resisting the urge to slam his aching wrist against the stone, just to clear his head. The pain would be easier to deal with. He could understand that, at least. He could cope with that.

“Clint.”

He looked up. Phil smiled. “I will not,” he repeated, soft and firm, “let anyone hurt you. Not ever again.”

Clint's head fell forward. “I want my brother,” he whispered.

“I wish he was here,” Phil whispered back. “But he's not. I'm sorry. But he's not here, Clint.”

“I know.” Clint shifted, just a little, all the tension gone, all the strength that had held him coiled bleeding away. “I know. I just.” He scrubbed at his face with his good arm. “I'm scared.”

Phil smiled, just a little. “Me, too,” he said. He held out a hand. 

“It's a lie,” Clint said.

“What is?”

Clint tried to smile. “Grown ups say stupid shit like that all the time. That I won't be afraid or that they won't let anyone hurt me or that I'll be safe.” Exhausted, he leaned his head back. “And it's a lie.” Phil was silent, and Clint squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring the way that made the tears leak out down his cheeks. “It's always a lie. But with you, it's different.”

He pushed his head up, then his body, pushed away from the wall and half crawled, half dragged himself over to the edge of the scaffolding. “You know it's a lie,” he said. “You know you can't protect me.” He stopped, just in reach. “Can you.”

Phil studied him. He swallowed, and Clint watched his throat bob. “I might not be able to protect you,” he said at last, and the words were sad somehow, sad and slow like the songs they played in church on bad days. “But Clint?” He held out his hand. “I will give you whatever safety I can find.”

Clint considered that. Then pushed himself forward, not taking Phil's hand, but brushing past it, looping his good arm around Phil's neck, pressing himself close. “Okay,” he said, against Phil's shoulder, and he felt Phil's arm lock around his waist, pulling him off the scaffolding. It should've been terrifying, being in mid-air with only this stranger between him and the ground, but Clint was too tired to care.

He just clung and let Phil get them back to the ground. How it happened, he didn't really care, he wasn't even sure he was awake through it, because the next thing he knew, they were on the ground, and Phil was lowering him down to the floor. He leaned Clint back against a marble column, and straightened up. The cold air rushed in around him, and Clint shivered, missing Phil's body heat already. He shifted, trying to draw his legs back up, but they wouldn't respond. 

“Here.”

He looked up, just in time to see Phil crouch down next to him, the plate in his hand. Phil's smile was faint, but real. “It's still hot.”

Clint considered it. “I took all the candy,” he said. He'd thought he was done crying, but apparently, he wasn't. “I stole it. From your box.”

Phil nodded. “I know.” He set the plate down, then reached for his pocket. Pulling out a clean white handkerchief, he wiped off Clint's hands. “Why did you take it?”

Clint sniffled. “I was hungry.”

Phil wiped Clint's cheeks, one, then then other, then his nose. “Then it's okay,” he said. “But I wish you had asked, so I could've given it to you.” He settled down next to Clint on the floor. “I need you to eat. And then, I'm sorry, Clint, but we need to get you wrist looked at.”

Clint reached for an onion ring with fingers that shook. “Okay,” he said. “I can eat first?”

“Yes.” 

Another shiver rolled over him, and Phil leaned forward, shrugging out of his jacket. He settled it over Clint's shoulders, his hands gentle as he tucked the fabric around Clint's shaking body. Clint leaned into his warmth, and after a second, Phil lifted his arm out of the way, letting Clint settle against his side.

His hand rubbed the top of Clint's head. “Eat, please,” he said, but Clint was too tired for that. He closed his eyes and curled up close, and let himself fall. He was pretty sure that Phil was going to catch him.

*

Clint had thought the locker room was empty. 

He'd stayed on the range for a long time, until far after everyone else had gone. He'd stayed, luxuriating in the steady draw and release of the bowstring. In the familiar burn of the muscles in his arms, and shoulders, and back. He'd continued, until his fingers were shaking, until he could barely hold his weapon. 

Then, and only then, had he retreated across the silent weapons range, his footsteps uneven, stumbling. He'd thought he was alone when he pushed his way into the locker room, almost falling across the threshold. He'd been watching. Everyone else had left, hours ago. So the locker room should have been empty.

But a familiar figure was leaning against his locker, pristine black suit in sharp contrast to the gunmetal gray doors. He didn't look in Clint's direction, but there was no doubt what he was doing there.

“It's like high school all over again,” Clint snarked, walking across the room. “Are you finally going to ask me to prom, sir?”

Coulson arched an eyebrow. “Sorry, not today,” he said.

“It is just like high school,” Clint said. He swung his weapons case up onto the bench and pulled his bow off of his shoulder. “So, if you're not asking about my preference in corsage color, what are you doing here at this time of night?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.”

Clint shook his head. “I asked you first, sir.”

“You were the only one who didn't stay for the debrief,” Coulson said, his voice quiet.

“Didn't see much of a point,” Clint admitted. He flipped his weapons case open, relieved to have his weapons check to occupy his hands and his mind. “Got magicked. Woke up back to normal. Not really that big of a deal.”

“You need to talk about it.”

Clint did his best not to roll his eyes. He wasn't entirely successful. “Look, sir, it's not the weirdest thing that's happened to me. So I'm told I was a kid for a day and a half or so, magic's hell. But Thor's people put me back to rights.” He held up his arm, flexing his fingers. “Fixed my wrist and everything. So I'm not sure what you expect me to talk about.”

Coulson didn't say a word for several minutes, letting Clint go through the motions of disassembling his bow. “Everyone else remembers what happened,” he said at last. “Remembers being the age they appeared to be, but remembers the events as well.”

Clint shrugged. “Pretty much.”

Coulson's mouth got tight. “You need to go through debrief on this, Barton.”

He didn't want to talk about it. He didn't even want to think about it, really. He wanted to pretend that none of it had happened, but it would appear that Coulson wasn't going to let him take that route. 

Because he did remember. Every moment, every breath, every word. He remembered being small, and in pain, and frightened out of his mind, but too stupid to allow himself to just be scared. He remembered the ache of hunger and of injury, and the numbing feeling of abandonment. He'd thought he'd remembered his childhood, he'd thought he'd dealt with it, thought he'd handled it.

He'd returned to his childhood for one day, and it was like reopening a wound he didn't even remember getting. What had been a faded scar, half forgotten and ignored, was now bleeding freely again and he hated every single thing about it.

“You need to-”

“I don't,” Clint said, his voice sharp, cutting through Coulson's words. “I really don't.” His fingers slipped on the bowstring, and only the callouses on his hands saved him from a fresh wound. He gritted his teeth.

“Debrief with psych, or debrief with me,” Coulson said, and Clint wondered if he punched his supervising agent, if that would get him a leave until this blew over. Except he was pretty sure Coulson would just be waiting for him when he came back.

“Great,” he muttered.

“And since you've been avoiding me for the last three days, I know what your choice is going to be.”

Clint felt the muscles of his shoulders tighten, almost to the point of pain. “I haven't been avoiding you.” It was an obvious lie. He didn't much care. Lies were his stock-in-trade, by this point. He was comfortable with lies. He understood them, he could control them.

“I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” Coulson said, his voice still. “That wasn't my intention. I didn't know it was you, at the beginning. And then, even when I did know it was you, I couldn't leave you. It might not be fair to you, now, but I could not leave that child alone.”

“It's fine,” Clint gritted out. He tried not to think about it. It was the jacket, that stood out in his mind, the memory impossible to ignore. Of the way Coulson had wrapped the fabric around him, still warm from his body, and smelling faintly of his aftershave, or his cologne. Clint could remember the warmth, the comfort of that jacket, tucked in close around his shaking body, and it was pathetic how often he'd returned to that fragment of a memory over the past few days.

“Barton-”

Clint's head fell forward. “Did it occur to you,” he managed, “that maybe, just maybe, I didn't want you to know? That I don't talk about my childhood because I don't like to think about it, and I sure as fuck didn't want you looking at me like-” His hand slashed through the air. “Like that.”

“Like what?” Coulson asked in the silence that followed.

“Like I'm something to be fucking pitied,” Clint bit out. “I don't want your pity, I don't want your sympathy, I don't want you to know how fucking pathetic I was.” He pulled himself up, every bit of wounded pride needed to get his spine straight, and he forced himself to meet Coulson's eyes. “Don't. I don't want that. Not from you.” He shook his head. “Not you.”

Coulson's gaze was steady, his face calm. “You were not pathetic.”

The laughter was harsh and hard, a bark of sound, and Clint was already shaking his head. “Yeah. I was.”

“No. You weren't. You were clever, and resourceful. You were a fighter. Even then.” Coulson's eyes didn't break from Clint's. “You are not responsible for what was done to you. Not now. Not then. You are not responsible for what people do to you, you are only responsible for what you do about it. How you handle what people do to you, how they hurt you.”

His lips, for the first time, twitched up in a slight, sad smile. “You are not responsible for how you were treated, Clint. Only for how you move on from that.”

Clint's throat was tight, it was hard to swallow, hard to breathe. 

“Do you know what one of the first things that survivors of violence and abuse tend to hear, when they tell someone about their experiences?” Coulson asked. Clint didn't say anything, just watched him. Watched as Coulson took a breath, his shoulders rising with it beneath the perfect lines of his jacket. “'Are you kidding?'” He scraped a hand over his face. “Or 'That's not funny.' Or 'You shouldn't joke about that.'”

His hands fell to his sides. “As if anyone would ever joke about that. But it's... Impulse that people have. When someone they love, tells them they lived through something horrific. The person they trust, the person they go to for help, will ask them if they're joking.” He took another breath, and another. “I never understood it.”

His eyes flicked in Clint's direction. “I do now. At least a little bit.” He was still, his face and his body. “I think, on some level, we can't believe it. We, as human beings, don't want to acknowledge that someone who is important to us, someone who-” He stopped, and shook his head. “Someone who is this remarkable, singular, amazing person who holds such worth to us, could be hurt that way.” 

He fell silent, for a moment. “On some level, it is beyond comprehension. That there was someone who couldn't understand how important that person is. How important they have always been.”

He pushed away from the lockers. “You were a singular, amazing child, Clint. But you are a more remarkable man. I'm sorry that it happened, that I made you uncomfortable, but I'm more sorry that I didn't recognize you right off. That you couldn't trust me, when you needed me.”

Clint was shaking, the tremors so fine that he barely felt them, but it felt like he was shaking apart nonetheless. “You know what confuses me?” he asked, his voice unfamiliar in his ears. “What did you think you were going to do with a kid that messed up.”

“Whatever I could,” Coulson said, without missing a beat. “Even before I knew it was you. I would have done anything I could. Even if it wasn't enough.”

“Probably better it didn't come to that,” Clint said, trying for humor. “Pretty sure I was rabid back then. You would've ended up getting bitten.”

“You didn't have to bite. You had a lot of other defenses.”

“Yeah. Sorry I kicked you. And called you a liar,” Clint said. He took a deep breath. “Thank you. For-” He swallowed. “For taking care of me. Even though I was a little rabid.”

Coulson's smile was a little easier, a little more Coulson this time. “It's my job, Agent Barton. Even when you're rabid.”

“You've always been good at it,” Clint said, without thinking about it, because he didn't want to go back to being 'Agent Barton.' He liked the sound of his name in Coulson's voice. “You were lying, though.”

“I know. I knew I was lying. I know it's a lie,” Coulson said, each word steady. “When I tell you I'll bring you back. I know it's a promise I can't make. But I make it anyway, because here's the truth under that.” He leaned in. “That the only reason I will not get you out, that I will not come back for you, that I will leave you behind is if I'm already dead.”

Clint stared at him. “Sir, I'd prefer you alive and deserting me, than dead 'cause you came after me.” He placed his weapons case in his locker, setting it down with care. “So that doesn't bring me much comfort.” He shut the door to his locker, resting his palm against the closed door. “You alive and still fighting, that's-” He looked up. “That's comforting.”

Coulson's chin dipped. “I'll keep that in mind.”

Clint wasn't sure why he did it. Temporary insanity, maybe, or just relief, or some need to see if he could coax his name from Coulson's lips one more time. But he leaned in, just a bit, and he saw Coulson's eyes widen. He waited, so close that Coulson had to have been able to feel the shaky exhale of his breath.

He waited, prepared for Coulson to pull back, to put some space between them. The way he always did, when Clint got too close or too personal.

But this time, for whatever reason, Coulson bridged the last few inches of distance, his lips finding Clint's, and Clint sank into the kiss without a second thought. It was sweet and comforting, and somehow familiar. But it was a kiss, one he'd been waiting for, for a long time.

He didn't realize he was shaking until Phil pulled away, breaking the contact of their bodies just long enough to pull his jacket from his shoulders and wrap it around Clint's. And then he pulled Clint back in, his arms winding around Clint's back, pulling him close.

Clint buried his face in Phil's neck, breathing slowly, letting the warmth seep into him. “I'm keeping this jacket,” he mumbled into Phil's shoulder.

“I've got another one back in my office,” Phil said. His lips brushed against Clint's temple. “I owe you a burger.”

“I think I owe you one, actually,” Clint said. “Never did eat the one you got for me.”

“We can try again.”

Clint nodded, but made no effort to pull away. He wasn't hungry. Not just yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grumpycakes did a great comic that bridges the scenes in the middle. You can find it here. 8)
> 
> http://grumpycakes.tumblr.com/post/93079973092/this-is-what-i-think-would-have-happened-after-the


	19. The Interns Hate Noodle Incidents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skipping ahead here for some goofy intern fun to counteract that last dark chapter. 8)
> 
> For Anonymous, who requested the Interns dealing with the aftermath with a mess at SHIELD, or trying to explain said mess to their superiors. Poor interns.
> 
> Canon to Toasterverse, gen, all the ocs all the time!

"Well. That was weird."

Darcy shrugged. “You should be used to weird,” she said, before going back to her bottle of soda. Her feet were cold, and she moved them to another, drier part of the carpet. The receptionist was staring at her with an expression of ill-disguised horror, and Darcy gave her a sunny smile. Judging by the way the woman recoiled, it wasn’t effective.

Maybe because her mascara had to be all over her face by this point, giving her that great ‘horror or romcom movie survivor’ look. Or maybe because Shawn was hugging his ruined shoes to his chest, or that Harris appeared to have some sort of plant growth in his hair, and it might be growing. Shawn was just wet.

Of course, they were all wet. Wet and dripping onto the carpet directly outside Director Nick Fury’s office. Waiting, like drowned rats, for the other shoe to hit the ground. Because it had been that kind of weird.

“I’m used to weird,” Darcy told Shawn, more to convince herself than him. “I work for SHIELD now. We DO weird.”

"There’s weird and then there’s WEIRD," Shawn told her. "This was definitely the second category, Darce."

"Well, Harris deciding to sing along with our possible demise was what pushed it over the top for me," Darcy pointed out. "That was- That was unexpectedly weird, Harris."

"I stand by my musical selection," Harris said. He held up one hand, gesturing with his index finger. "Certain situations call for certain sound tracks."

"Harris?" Drew said.

"Yes?"

"The situation never, ever calls for ‘Let It Go.’"

Harris clapped a hand on Drew’s shoulder. “Drew?”

"Yes?"

"We’re going to have to agree to disagree here, buddy."

Drew gave him a look that could have stripped paint. “It’s ‘Defying Gravity Lite,’ Harris. Nothing calls for that musical ear worm.”

Harris smiled at no one and nothing in particular. “Agree. To disagree.”

"It’s HORRIBLE."

"Snob," Harris told him, unconcerned. He was unexpectedly mellow about the latest catastrophe. Darcy didn’t really trust it.

"You don’t even like musical theater," Shawn said to Drew. "You don’t even like THEATER. Let alone musicals."

"I can have opinions," Drew told him.

"You called ‘Wicked’ a tasteless abomination."

"And ‘Defying Gravity’ is still the high point of that tasteless abomination."

"I like musicals," Harris said.

"No one is surprised," Drew told him.

"Wait, I am. I am surprised." Darcy leaned forward. "Since when?"

Harris shrugged. “Since… Forever?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Prove it.”

He laughed. “Prove it? Prove it how? You want me to sing a selection from ‘Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?’”

Darcy considered him. “I don’t know what that is,” she admitted at last.

"Aaaaaaand I just proved it," Harris said. He started humming under his breath.

Darcy braced an elbow on the arm of her chair. “I think we broke him,” she said.

"It was a long time coming. Kind of surprised it didn’t happen sooner." Drew gave one of the shoes a shake. It flopped sadly in his hand, and he made a pathetic noise.

"He did swallow a lot of salt water," Shawn said.

"Which is unusual for the twelfth floor," Harris said. He held out his arms, spreading them wide, and everyone ducked, the action a reflex by this point. "Was not expecting that."

"I do not know how you would’ve." Shawn reached over and picked something green out of Harris’ hair. "That was… Not something that any sane person could’ve been expecting. There was no expecting that."

"I don’t think sanity is really a stat we have to take into account any longer." Harris let his head fall backwards. "I blame you, Lewis."

Darcy pumped a fist in the air. “Fuck, yeah,” she said, grinning around the straw in her mouth. The others all swiveled their heads in her direction, their expressions a mix of confusion and disbelief. She shrugged. “I’m going to get blamed anyway,” she pointed out. “I figure I might as well enjoy being blamed.” The blank stares continued. She grinned at them, unashamed. “It’s working for me.”

"And that is all that matters." Shawn held out a hand, and Darcy slapped her palm against his.

“What the hell is this?”

As one, they all stood, snapping to an odd sort of attention as Director Fury stalked from the elevator towards his office, his gaze locked on them.

There was a moment of strained silence. “I can explain-” Darcy started, and Fury’s hand came up so fast that she could swear she heard it crack like a whip. For a long, drawn out moment of silence, he just stared at them.

"Why am I seeing you?" he asked her. His singular, brilliant eye, cut across the group. "All of you. Any of you. Why are you here? I could have sworn that you, every single one of you, are Coulson’s problem. That was the agreement that was reached, so where is he?"

“Here, sir.” Coulson stepped off of the elevator. “Sorry.” Fury just gestured in their direction. Coulson sighed. “I was dealing with the.. Aftereffects.”

Everyone shuddered. “The twelfth floor wasn’t THAT bad-” Darcy started, and Coulson turned a icy look in her direction.

"No," he interrupted. "The twelfth floor was not that bad. However, the eleventh floor, the tenth floor, the ninth floor and a good chunk of the fifth floor, were that bad."

She swallowed. “The… Fifth floor?”

He leaned in. “Vents, Ms. Lewis. Vents.”

“Well, fuck,” she said.

"Give me one good reason why I should not have them killed," Fury said, rubbing his forehead. "One good reason. I have something in place to blame the CIA already, no point in having a plan unless you get to use it, and this seems like a damn good reason to use it."

“Because that would be a vast over reaction?” Harris asked, and everyone looked at him.

“Ignore him. He’s gone crazy,” Darcy said.

“Also, that’s what SHIELD is based on. Vast over reactions,” Coulson said. “You won’t kill them because Agent Barton was in said vents at the time of the occurrence and at this point he’s part of the damage on level five.”

Fury arched an eyebrow.

“He’s so traumatized that we might get a full month before he starts duct-diving again,” Coulson said, folding his hands in front of him.

Fury’s other eyebrow went up. “A month?”

Coulson shrugged. “Maybe more.”

“Well, hot damn, that’s a reason to let them live.” With that, Fury turned on his heels and stalked into his office. The door slammed behind him with a very, very final sounding thud.

“My entire life just flashed before my eyes,” Shawn said, his voice faint.

“I just tried to linger on the sexy parts,” Drew told him.

“This really was not our fault,” Darcy told Coulson.

“Don’t care, Ms. Lewis. Get a mop. You are going to be on clean up duty for the rest of your natural life.”

"That seems unfair."

"Unfair would be giving you a rag, Ms. Lewis."

"Point taken."

"I fucking hate that squid," Harris said to no one in particular.

"You get used to him," Coulson told him.

"That is the worst thing you've ever said to me."

"Our relationship is still young, Mr. McIntyre."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you don't understand the reference, you can learn more about Noodle Incidents here:
> 
> http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Main/NoodleIncident


	20. Thor and Natasha Meet the Roombas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For ArwenLune, who requested the meeting of Thor and Natasha and the Roombas that lead to the fun of Thor riding a herd of Roombas and an IKEA ironing board.
> 
> Gen, canon to the Toasterverse, of course. 8)

“Stark finds new ways to make our lives a living hell every day.”

Thor laughed. “I think it has little enough to do with our presence,” he pointed out, his eyes twinkling. “And more to do with his own lack of foresight.”

Natasha crossed her arms as she considered the mechanical mob of robot vacuum cleaners that were swarming all over the floor. “More brains than sense,” she agreed. “Where did these all COME from?”

“I apologize,” Jarvis said, bringing both Natasha and Thor’s heads up. The Roombas seemed to pause for a moment before returning to bouncing off one another, the walls, the furniture, and everything else in sight like Jarvis was playing air hockey with them. Natasha doubted the AI would bother, but it was an amusing thought. “They have… Finished cleaning the workshop, it would appear.”

“And have moved on to other battlegrounds?” Thor asked.

“The are difficult to corral effectively. My apologies.”

Natasha’s eyebrows arched. “That is a lot of Roomba for the workshop,” she said.

“Sir sometimes underestimates the impact of his experiments on his living space,” Jarvis said, his voice droll.

“Often. Often underestimates,” Natasha corrected.

“Are we then done with our task for the evening?” Thor asked. He wiped his hands on his apron.

“I think we can safely say the dishes can wait,” Natasha agreed, just as something impacted with her ankle.

Natasha looked down, watching as a Roomba bounced against her foot. Undeterred, it made another attempt, spun around, and went right back against her foot again. Amused despite herself, she crouched down and put a finger on top of its casing. “Stubborn,” she told it. “But not terribly clever.”

It spun under her finger, and she had to bite back a smile. “These things are going to be a menace,” she said.

Thor picked one up, holding it in one hand. “Think you? They seem quite harmless, to speak true. No more than small helpers.”

The Roomba backed up, pulling away from Natasha’s finger, and then zipped forward again. It went right over her toe, rocking off of the ground and then bumping back down before whirring away. It seemed to be chirping as it went, and Natasha covered her mouth with her hand to hide her smile. “They’re stronger than they look,” she said.

“Aye,” Thor agreed. He was still rotating one in his hands, ignoring its panicked beeping. “And they have many-” He leaned in, his eyes narrowing, and the Roomba went into full vacuum mode, sucking a huge hunk of Thor’s hair into it’s brushes.

Shocked, he let it go, and the thing moved upwards, climbing Thor’s hair like it was an escape route.

“That was unexpected,” Thor said, and he sounded so honestly stymied that Natasha just started to laugh. He grinned at her, the Roomba hanging from the side of his head. “Perhaps it took offense to my observations?”

“I think it was trying to defend itself,” Natasha told him, choking back another wave of giggles. She stepped forward, her hands up. “Stop tugging, your hair is going to end up getting tangled in the brushes, and the we’ll never get you free.

“I feel I have been bested by an unworthy opponent,” Thor said, but he was grinning. He took a step back, waving her away. “I shall get it free, do not be concerned.”

“My humblest apologies,” Jarvis said, and he sounded stressed, as much as a disembodied AI could sound stressed. “There are so many, I was not adequately able to control the full actions of all of them. Please remain still, I shall have it reverse-”

“No!” Natasha said, jerking backwards, but it was too late.

The Roomba let out a belch of hair, dust and dirt, and dropped like a rock to the ground. It hit and rolled on its edge, like a coin that hadn’t been properly flipped. As soon as it clattered back to it wheels, it rolled away, cheerfully ignorant of the disaster it was leaving in its wake.

Thor blinked, his eyes white in behind a mask of dust and dirt. “These things,” he said, laughing as he scrubbed at his face with one hand, “I like them.”

“Well, I someone must,” Jarvis said, making Thor laugh harder.

The Roomba whirred by, and Natasha put a foot down on it, trying to hold it in place. To her surprise, it rolled away. She hopped up, resting her full weight on the Roomba for an instant before hopping back off. There was no change to the damn thing. She leaned in. “Jarvis, how much stronger did he make these things?”

“Quite a bit stronger,” Jarvis said.

“Industrial grade?”

“Military grade,” Jarvis said.

Natasha’s lips parted on a silent swear. “Please, do not let him arm them.”

“I shall endeavor to do my best.” Jarvis paused. “I regret to say that my efforts in this particular matter have very seldom been successful.”

Natasha considered one of the Roombas, and then simply stepped onto it. The thing just kept right on going, not seeming to notice or care that it now had a passenger. “Oh, this will end badly,” she said, smirking down at it. As if in response, it did a neat about face, and after the third full rotation Natasha brought her arms up like a ballerina in a music box, letting the little robot do the work of the turn for her.

“This, we can use to our advantage.” She stepped off. “Thor. Try it.”

“That, I fear, would be a poor idea,” Thor said, wiping the last of the dirt from his hair. He flicked his head from side to side like a dog shedding water. “As I weigh far more than you.”

Natasha considered the Roomba. “Maybe one couldn’t,” she agreed. “Jarvis, where is Clint?”

“Marking any that will stay still long enough to make such markings possible,” Jarvis said. “Front foyer.”

“Thank you.” Natasha looked at Thor. “Want to see if we can’t get them a bit more organized?”

He grinned, wide and sharp. “Lead on, my lady, lead on.”

“Grab a favorite Roomba and let’s ask Clint if Phil still has that embarrassment of an ironing board from IKEA.”


	21. Sif Takes a Beach Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LinguisticJubilee requested: "Sif dealing with the foolishness of Earth. If it's Sif/Maria or Sif/Darcy that wouldn't be too bad either." So we have some of all of the above. 8)
> 
> Maria/Sif with some Darcy being bros with Sif and trying to avoid getting shot by Maria. Canon to the Toasterverse. 8)

“Hey, crazy woman.”

Sif turned, just a bit, just enough to glance over her shoulder. Darcy was standing there, bundled heavily in a winter coat and a winter hat with extra bits that hung down to cover her ears. Her dark hair, caught by the wind, curled around her shoulders and whipped through the air. Her nose and cheeks were bright red. Sif smiled down at her. “Hello, little one,” she said, reaching out with one finger to tap the tip of Darcy’s nose.

Darcy’s nose wrinkled up. “Heeeeeey,” she whined, but her teeth flashed, bright and white. She held up a sweatshirt. “I brought you something. So you don’t freeze.”

“I am comfortable enough,” Sif said, but she took it anyway. “You look like a well-stuffed toy.”

Darcy held her arms out to the sides, which only exaggerated the roundness of her coat. “Down coats are the absolute best. She nodded at the sweatshirt. “I got it for you.”

Sif held it up. The fabric was a mix of colors, waves and spots, but a seemingly random tangle of pinks, yellows, greens and blues that bloomed over every inch of it. The words “Coney Island, Brooklyn” were printed in a flowing script across the front. Sif nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “It is very… Colorful.”

“I love tie-dye,” Darcy said, tucking her mittened hands back into her pockets. “Groovy.”

“So it is,” Sif said, because that seemed a safe enough thing to say. She dragged the sweatshirt over her head, tugging at it when it caught on her armor. It wasn’t so cold that she had been uncomfortable, but the sweatshirt was warm and soft, and she grinned at Darcy. “What say you? Does it suit me?” she asked, holding her hands out to her sides.

Darcy went on tiptoe and snagged the hood with one hand, dragging it over Sif’s head. “You’re a hot and sexy mama,” she declared.

“Thank you.” Sif lowered herself down to the sand, drawing her legs up against her chest and looping her arms around them. “You are kind to bring it to me.”

“Thought you might be cold,” Darcy said. She moved closer to Sif, but didn’t bother sitting down, she just wrapped her arms around her chest and huddled into it. Sif laughed, and Darcy looked at her. “What?”

“You look like nothing so much as a pretty little bird with her feathers fluffed against the cold,” Sif said. She leaned her hands back against the sand, digging into the grains with one thumb. “It suits you.”

“I am fine with my fluffy fabulousness,” Darcy said, her nose in the air. “But I would be fine with, you know, going in at some point? Have you considered not freezing to death? That would be awesome.”

“It is not so cold,” Sif pointed out. She held out an arm. “Come here.”

Darcy stared at her. “This seems like a bad plan,” she pointed out. But she plopped herself down on the sand next to Sif, drawing her knees up and huddling into them. She sank down, her eyes just visible behind a wall she built of her folded arms and her upthrust knees. Between the fluff of her sleeves and the low slump of her hat, her big eyes blinked at Sif.

Sif smiled at her. “Can you even breathe beneath all that?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” Darcy mumbled, even as the wind swept up the beach, catching her dark curls and lifting them like a banner. Darcy shivered. “How are you not a solid block of ice by now?”

“I have dealt with nights much colder,” Sif said, wrapping an arm around Darcy’s shoulders. Darcy immediately cuddled up against her side. Amused, Sif gave her a one armed hug. “You, I think, are built for warmer climes than this.”

“I am built for Caribbean beaches and bikinis,” Darcy mumbled. “But I’d settle for a warm bed and a hot toddy at this point.”

“But we are at the beach,” Sif said, waving her free hand at the crashing waves.”

“Yes, but we’ve dealt with Namor’s latest piss-fit,” Darcy said. “Which means we can go home now.”

Sif gave her a look. “We?” she asked

Darcy flapped a hand at him, waving off that small matter. “You, you handled it,” she said. “I’m just here because you’re freakin’ out the junior agents.” She snuggled down again. “Goddamn wuss junior agents, they need to grow a spine.”

Sif laughed. “But still, you are here, quite bravely facing the cold.”

“Why.” Darcy raised her head, her cheeks red. “Why am I here, Sif?”

“Because there is something comforting about the winter tides,” Sif said. “About the rise of the seas in the coldest days of the year. To watch the encroaching waves sweep all before them clean.”

Darcy shivered. “Yeah, well, next time,” she said, waving a hand at the sea, “you should come back during the summer. Coney Island in summer, that’s the shit.”

Sif considered that. “In a good way,” she asked at last, “or a bad way?”

Darcy grinned. “Good. The Cyclone. You gotta ride the Cyclone.” She tipped her head back, her eyes closing, the wind sweeping over her face. “It’s an old wooden roller coaster, and it is amazing. Sure, the ride’s a little rough, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to die, and you have to pay way more for it than it’s worth, but man. When it’s all over, you feel alive.”

“Sounds like those few times we’ve let Volstagg take the rudder,” Sif said, laughing. She leaned back, sinking her hands into the sand. “We ought to regret it, and learn from our mistakes.”

“But you just doing it,” Darcy said, giggling.

“Thor insists he is improving, I could swear he is only getting worse.”

Darcy slapped her hands against the sand. “Oh, fuck, we have got to take you to Disney!”

“Lewis, you are not taking her to Disney.”

Sif looked back and up, a smile breaking over her face as Maria made her way towards them. Despite the damp, shifting sand, her stride was as brisk and steady as it always was. “Has your work been completed?” Sif asked, smiling up at her as Maria came to a stop next to her.

“For the time being.” Maria’s smile was slight and soft, but beautiful. She arched an eyebrow at Sif. “We're all set. You can go."

“I should,” Sif admitted, “but the view is so lovely from here.”

That won her a grin. “Is it?” Maria asked, leaning over. Sif arched up, meeting her halfway for a kiss that warmed more than her chilled lips.

“You are lovely from all angles,” Sif said, against Maria’s lips. “But this one is particularly nice.”

“You two are sickening,” Darcy said.

Maria straightened up, and Sif settled back down, laughing as she leaned back against Maria’s legs. Maria’s fingers tangled in Sif’s hair. “Why are you here, Ms. Lewis?” Maria asked, her tone droll.

“I got a call, ma’am!” Darcy said, with a salute. “And I answered it. And I am totally taking your girlfriend to Disney World!”

Maria’s eyes flicked up. “No. You are not.”

Sif looked up at her. “Can we not?” she asked.

Maria’s expression creased in confusion, almost shock, for an instant, and then she smiled. “Do you really want to go to Disney?” she asked.

Sif shrugged more than a bit embarrassed. “Thor has been. He speaks very fondly of it.”

Maria looked at Darcy. “Oooooh, yeah,” Darcy said, grinning. “Jane took him. It was a thing that happened.”

Maria’s eyes narrowed. “And who signed off on that?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Bosslady, all respect and that shit, but I think you have an exaggerated idea of how much control you have over Sparky and his impulses. Jane wanted to go, and he wanted to make Jane happy, and that’s how they ended up at Disney standing in line for, like, forty-five minutes waiting to meet Belle ‘cause she’s Jane’s favorite Disney princess.”

“Thor said she was a very regal young lady,” Sif said. “And was most gracious in her greetings to them.”

“Some poor character actress down in Florida is probably still having heart palpitations,” Darcy said.

“How did I not-”

“You were in Osaka, dealing with that thing,” Darcy said.

“How do you know-”

“I know NOTHING,” Darcy said, scrambling to her feet in a shower of sand, “absolutely nothing, sorry, shouldn’t have said anything, but Coulson handled it, you know what, I should probably be going now that you’re here, there’s squid reports to be filed, so many squid reports, my favorite things, those.”

She was gone so fast that Sif didn’t even have time to say good-bye. She leaned forward, her hands on the sand. “That was unkind,” she said, too amused to scold.

Maria lowered herself down to the sand, avoiding the spot where Darcy had been sitting. Sif wondered if she even realized what she was doing it. “She was making time with my girl,” Maria pointed out, that faint little smile back. “She’s lucky that my sidearm wasn’t drawn.”

Sif grinned. “Have I the charms to stir jealousy in you?”

“Even in that sweatshirt.”

Sif held her arms out. “It is warm and soft, and a gift from the sister of my heart,” she said. “Will you sit with me a bit? And watch the sea?”

Maria moved in, her hand over Sif’s, weaving their fingers together. “Disney?”

“Should you like, I can make the trip alone, or with Darcy, she seems eager enough to-”

Maria’s fingers tightened on hers. “Don’t you dare.”

Laughing, Sif settled down, her shoulder snug against Maria’s. “I dare much, but even I am not so much a fool as to prick your temper.”

That won her a kiss, light and sweet, on the curve of her cheek. She turned her head for the next one. “I have about six years worth of vacation time,” Maria admitted, leaning her forehead against Sif’s. “If you want.”

“Should you be by my side, I should be pleased.”


	22. Clint Babysits (It Does Not Go Well)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tehnakki requested DJ and Izzy having hijinks! (Izzy, for those who don't know her, is on loan from the most excellent series "The Izzy Chronicles" by the ever gracious Copperbadge, who agreed to let her and her daddy Clint come visiting)
> 
> Read how Clint became a dad here: http://archiveofourown.org/series/141054
> 
> Canon to the shared AU where Izzy and DJ both exist. Background Clint/Phil in the most domestic of circumstances. 8)
> 
> Warning for lost child and mild child endangerment, in that special way that children see no problems and adults are CERTAIN THAT EVERYTHING IS GOING TO END IN TRAGEDY.

“Penguins, penguins, penguins, penguins-”

“Breathe, Izzy,” Clint mumbled, one hand fumbling for his coffee. “It’s too early and Poppa’s too asleep for this right now.”

She sucked in a long, audible breath. Held it, her eyes huge in her face. “PENGUINS,” she said on a massive exhale.

Phil chuckled, and Clint hid a smile behind his coffee cup. “I think she wants to see the penguins,” Phil said, flipping a pancake with an easy hand.

“Ya think?” Clint said, yawning. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Ready for the aquarium, Busy-Izzy?”

She stared him down, her eyes narrowed. “Penguins,” she said, her tone full of awe.

“How many pancakes can you eat, Izzy?” Phil asked, plating the first batch.

“Seventeen,” she said.

“Seventeen.” Clint propped his cheek on his fist. “Really. Seventeen pancakes.”

“Yes. Wait!” She twisted around in her chair, her legs bouncing in the air. “Phil, do I get to use the Dora plate?”

“Sorry, it’s in the dishwasher,” Phil said. He set two pancakes in front of her. “You’re going to have to make do with the happy robot plate.”

“Then I can eat fourteen,” Izzy told Clint.

“Makes sense,” Clint said, because Izzy logic was the best logic, and he wasn’t even going to pretend otherwise.

“How about we start with two, and see how it goes?” Phil said, brushing Izzy’s hair away from her face. Clint wasn’t sure where the man had come up with a hair elastic. He was pretty sure that Phil kept them in the pocket of his pajama pants. “Hold still, let’s pull this back before it ends up in the syrup.”

Izzy held mostly still as Phil swept her pale hair back. “Braid?” she asked.

“Izzy, what do we say?” Clint mumbled into his coffee cup.

“Braid, please?” she asked immediately.

“After breakfast,” Phil said, leaning over and brushing a kiss on top of her head. “Don’t let your pancakes go cold.”

“Okay,” she said, bouncing in her chair. She reached for her fork, and the syrup, and Clint got there first, pouring out what he considered a reasonable amount. Judging by her pout, she didn’t consider it reasonable. “Poppa. I need more syrup.”

“Oh, you need it?” he said, putting the bottle back, well out of her reach.

“Yes.”

“Tough.” He grinned at her as Phil gave him a couple of pancakes. “Eat. Or we won’t be able to go.”

Her sigh was loud and long suffering, but she settled down to her improperly syruped pancakes. Clint smiled up at Phil. “Thanks,” he said, with a smile.

Phil leaned over, snagging Clint’s empty coffee cup and kissing him at the same time. “You sure you’re up for this?” he asked, his voice very quiet.

Clint’s eyes darted towards Izzy, who luckily appeared not to have heard a word of it. “I’m fine,” he said, and barely got the words out before he yawned again. Phil gave him a look, and Clint waved him off. “I’m fine,” he repeated.

“Yes, you look like you’re fine,” Phil said, refilling Clint’s cup from the coffee pot, an act of pity that Clint desperately appreciated.

“It’s a trip to the aquarium,” Clint said as Phil handed him the cup. “So the mission ran late last night. Not that big of a deal. I got this under control.”

“I can come with you-” Phil started.

“No, you can’t,” Clint said, even though he would’ve been grateful for the backup this time, he knew better. “You’ve got a meeting on the West Coast in a few hours.”

Phil shrugged. “Couple of hours-” he started.

“I can take care of two little kids,” Clint said. “Seriously. Two.” He held up two fingers. “They might outnumber me, but I outweigh ‘em.”

“I’m more worried about them outsmarting you,” Phil said, pouring pancake batter with a practiced hand.

“Harsh, Phil, harsh,” Clint said, but he was grinning.

“Can I have more, Phil?” Izzy asked. Her face was covered in syrup, and Clint reached for a napkin.

“Coming up.”

There was a knock at the door, and Clint leaned back in his chair, casting a look in that direction. “It’s open,” he called.

“DJ!” Izzy said, ducking away from Clint’s hands. “DJ! PENGUINS!”

“Izz, c’mon, just-” Clint gave up, wadding up the napkin as Tony came into the kitchen. “Morning, Tony.”

“I have brought to you a small carbon based life form with a sock problem,” Tony said. DJ was tucked under his arm. The kid was giggling like a loon.

“Sock problem?” Izzy asked. DJ held up his hands. There were socks on both of them. “That’s wrong,” she told him. DJ flapped his hands. She giggled. “I have socks!” she said, wiggling off of her chair. Phil, who’d just been dropping two fresh pancakes on her plate, caught her before she got more than a few steps towards the kitchen door. He scooped her up, his hands under her arms, and a smile on his face.

“Eat your pancakes,” he said, as he set her back in her chair.

She stuffed another forkful of pancake into her mouth. “DJ, penguins!” she said.

He nodded. “Octopus,” he told her.

Tony wandered over, and Clint kicked a chair away from the table. Tony dropped DJ into the seat and crouched down to pull socks off of fingers and reassign them to the proper appendages. “Thanks,” he muttered. “Socks. Bane of my existence. Socks.”

Clint got to his feet, grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet. “Coffee?” he asked.

“God, yes.” Tony dropped into another seat.

“Pancakes?” Phil asked. “We’ve got plenty of batter.”

“They’re good,” Izzy told DJ, around a massive mouthful. Too late, Clint realized that she’d gotten hold of the syrup and dumped most of it onto her plate. The poor pancakes were now just syrup sponges, and the stuff was overflowing the edges and dripping onto the table.

DJ looked at his father, his expression hopeful. “You had cereal,” Tony pointed out. “And toast. How much starch can you consume at one sitting?”

“I can eat fourteen pancakes,” Izzy told Tony.

“Bet I can beat that,” Tony told her.

“Please don’t encourage her,” Clint said, handing Tony a cup of coffee. Phil plated a couple of pancakes , and picked up Izzy’s plate, draining the excess syrup from it onto DJ’s before he handed it over. Neither child seemed to think that this was anything other than normal.

“What, she deserves encouragement. I’m an encourager. Steve says it’s good to encourage them,” Tony said.

“Not when it will likely end in vomit,” Phil said. He handed Tony a plate of pancakes. “You get the Oscar the Grouch plate.”

“Damn right I do.” Tony took it and grabbed a kid sized fork from the bin in the center of the table. “You okay? You look like heeeeeeck,” he finished up, his eyes twitching towards the kids.

“Good try with the bad language there,” Clint said. “And I’m fine.”

“Okay, yeah, sure,” Tony said. “Deej, do not lick up that syrup, or I am disowning you.”

DJ considered him, his head lowered over his plate. After a moment of consideration, his tongue flicked out, lapping at the syrup. Tony stood, taking the plate away. “Let’s get some juice. Slightly less sugar in that.” He ignored DJ’s grabbing hands, holding the plate out of reach. “Can you give him another one to soak some of this up?” Tony asked Phil.

“Give it here. Glasses are in the second cabinet,” Phil said. “Have you heard from Steve?”

Tony gave a snort. “Have I heard from Steve. He’s been away for less than forty-eight hours. And you’re asking me if I’ve heard from him.”

“Constantly?” Clint asked.

“Constantly,” Tony confirmed, leaning into the fridge. “He’s called three times this morning alone, to see if I’ve properly prepped mini-me for his epic outing.”

“Has he had his shots?” Clint asked.

“You think you’re being funny, but yes. Yes, he has.” Tony poured DJ a glass of orange juice. “Just warning you, Barton, answer your phone, or he will call out the National Guard.”

“Can he do that?” Clint asked.

“Pretty sure he could,” Phil said. “Does he have the right? No. Could he? Pretty sure they’d show.”

“I’m too tired for this,” Clint said.

“It’s not that hard,” Tony said. “Just come back with as many kids as you left with. Pretty easy. People do it all the time.”

“The same children you left with,” Phil said, dropping another plate of pancakes on the table. “Izz, you want any more?”

Izzy considered that. “One,” she said. At Clint’s look, she amended, “One, please.”

“Thank you,” Phil said. “DJ?” DJ held up two fingers. “Got it.” Phil looked at Tony and Clint. “The two of you, finish the rest of them.” He untied his apron. “I’ve got to take a shower and get dressed.” He leaned over to kiss Izzy on the cheek, then Clint on the lips, then DJ on top of the head.

Tony held up his coffee cup. “Our relationship is not at that level, Agent.”

“I haven’t had my shots, Stark, so that wasn’t going to happen.” Phil tugged lightly on Izzy’s ponytail. “Let me get ready, and then we can get your hair braided while your Poppa showers and shaves so he does not look like a hobo.”

“Can DJ help?” she asked. DJ looked up, his expression eager.

“Sure,” Phil said. “He can’t be any worse than your dad.”

“Laugh it up,” Clint said, not bothered. He gave them a smug grin and held up his coffee mug. “World’s Greatest Dad.” He pointed. “Says so right here.”

“Not sure a mass produced mug counts as a binding legal contract,” Tony said.

“Be nice or I won’t bring your kid back, Tony.”

*

Clint stared down at the kid was holding his hand. “I have no idea who you are,” he said, because that was he only thing his brain could come up with.

Izzy tugged on his other hand. “He’s Ben,” she said, as if that meant anything.

“I’m Ben,” the boy agreed.

“Hi, Ben,” Clint said, his brain struggling to keep up with the situation. “Where’s DJ?”

“He didn’t want to see the penguins again,” Izzy said, leaning against Clint’s leg. “Ben did.”

Ben nodded. “Mommy said that we didn’t have time to see the penguins,” he said, his little face scrunched up in an expression of frustration. “But Izzy said you were going to see the penguins.”

Someone jostled against Clint’s back, and moved, pulling the kids over to a nearby wall where he could try to figure this out. “So you came with us?” he asked, trying to figure out just when he’d acquired the WRONG CHILD. His eyes flicked around, desperately looking for any sign of DJ, but there had to have been ten million people in this aquarium and about five million of them were clustered around the concrete and glass walls that surrounded the penguin enclosure. Locating one tiny, mostly silent little boy was a panic inducing task.

Clint absolutely could not panic right now.

“Where’s DJ?” And yes, he was stupid, he was asking two kids for help in what should’ve been his job, a very simple job, the job of taking Tony and Steve’s child to the Aquarium and NOT LOSING HIM.

“Ben wanted to see the penguins,” Izzy explained. “But Ben’s sisters wanted to go to the touch pool. And DJ wanted to go to the touch pool. And Ben didn’t. So Ben’s sisters said that DJ could go with them and I said that Ben could come with us, and now we’re seeing the penguins.”

Clint stared at his daughter, his brilliant, beautiful, perfect daughter. “You traded DJ for another kid?”

“I wanted to see the penguins, and he didn’t,” Izzy said, and it almost made sense when she said it like that.

Except no it didn’t. “Ben, did your mom know you were coming with us?”

Ben considered that, his eyes narrowing to slits. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I have four sisters. Mom says she has her hands full and it would be nice if we could just handle things and not bother her about every little thing all the time.” He paused. “So we did.”

“You did what?” Clint asked.

“We handled it.”

“Okay, no,” Clint said. “Touch tank. Okay. Touch tank.” The touch tank was at the top of the aquarium proper, four stories up, and he didn’t know if it would be faster to take the elevator or the outside ramp or the central ramp around the main reef tank. But standing here wasn’t going to get him there, that was for sure.

“Let’s go,” he said, tightening his grip on Ben’s hand, and Izzy’s hand, and he was not going to lose either one of them, nope, that was not happening, he could deal with this, he was going to deal with this.

“Poppa, penguins,” Izzy said. “You said-”

“I know, but I have to find DJ,” he said, and Izzy stopped dead. She stopped, her body becoming a tiny immovable force. Her face crumbled.

She leaned back, struggling against his grip. “Penguins!” she said, her voice rising.

“Izzy, we’ll come back down,” Clint said, and Izzy’s eyes went liquid, huge and wet and full of tears. Clint leaned over and scooped her into the crook of his arm, lifting her up against his chest. She set her hands on his shoulders and pushed, hard. “Izz, that’s enough,” Clint said, and he was already moving, because as much as he wanted to stand here and make it all better, to take her outside and sit her down and give her a snack and let her calm down, it was not an option he had right now.

So he headed up the ramp, ignoring the way that Izzy struggled and kicked against his shoulder. That was easier than dealing with the soft, muffled sound of her sobs against his neck.

“She wanted to see the penguins,” Ben said. His grip on Clint’s hand was firm enough. “I did, too.”

“I know, I know,” Clint said, struggling to hold onto his temper. When. When had he lost DJ? How long ago? How long had it been since he’d screwed this up? It was so crowded, it was so chaotic, so crazy, and Izzy wandered off, Izzy had always wandered off. Izzy was always so confident, so outgoing, and Clint was terrified of losing her, especially in a place like this.

He’d been so focused on Izzy, because he expected that DJ knew better than to wander off.

“Penguins,” Izzy said, and Clint kissed her, his lips lingering on her hair.

“I know,” he repeated. He went up the last flight of stairs, slowed down by Ben’s short strides. “We’re almost-”

He came to a halt, so fast that Ben ran into his legs. “Oh, fuuuuuuudge,” he managed, because the touch tank area was a sea of children, an impenetrable wall of tiny people. He scanned the space, looking desperately for DJ’s dark hair. “Ben, do you see your mom? Your sisters?”

“No,” Ben said, and Clint looked down. He lowered Izzy to the ground and scooped Ben up, boosting him onto a shoulder. Ben grabbed a fistful of Clint’s hair to steady himself. “There’s Juliana!” he said, pointing.

Clint stared, wondering if he could get over there without kicking some little kid in the head. But there was a tug on his pants. He looked down. The little girl stared up at him, her expression displeased. “That’s my brother.”

“This is Izzy’s dad,” Ben said, as Clint lowered him to the ground. “He’s-”

“Where’s DJ?” Clint asked, interrupting them. Both kids looked at him. Looked at each other.

“He didn’t like the touch tank,” the girl said. “The lady showed him a sea urchin and he didn’t like it.”

“Where did he go?” Clint asked, and felt Izzy’s hand slip out of his. He turned, grabbing for the back of her shirt, but she was off and running. “Izzy!” he yelled, at the end of his endurance, but there were kids everywhere, kids and glaring parents. Izzy slipped through the crowd in a way that Clint couldn’t.

“Izzy, Izzy,” Clint said, moving as quickly as he could, trying to keep Izzy’s pale braid in view as she bounced down the stairs. “Don’t you-”

She went right. Not left. Confused, Clint followed. “Izzy, don’t you-” He found a clear spot in the floor and caught up to her in three running strides, sweeping her off of her feet. “Don’t you dare run off on me,” he said, pulling her into his arms. “Izzy, you know better than-”

Izzy pointed. “Octopus,” she said, and Clint’s head snapped around.

DJ was standing in front of the octopus tank, his hands pressed against the glass, his head tipped back. Clint let out a shuddering breath, and Izzy curled up against his shoulder. “DJ wanted to see the octopus,” she said.

Clint nodded. “Yes. Yes, he did.” He looked down at her. “Don’t run away from me, Izzy. You know how to use your words.” She nodded. “And don’t trade your friends for other random children.” She smiled. Clint kissed her forehead. “We’re going to let DJ look at the octopus for a while, then we’ll go back to the penguins. Okay?”

She considered that. “Can I have a penguin?”

“No.”

“Can I have two penguins?”

“Double no,” Clint said, heading over to the tank. DJ didn’t even look up when Clint came up behind him. He just leaned back against Clint’s legs. “You need to stay with me, botboy.” DJ nodded, without even looking up at them.

“Can DJ have a penguin?”

“No,” Clint said.

“Can I have a penguin t-shirt?”

“Maybe,” Clint said. “It depends on how much trouble you cause for the rest of the day.”

“Octopus?” DJ asked, never looking up.

“Maybe,” Clint said. He leaned a hand against the tank. “It’s kind of cool.”

*

Tony stared down at DJ. What little he could see of his son under a giant Octopus plush toy that was about twice the boy’s size. “Well, this is new.”

“Octopus,” DJ said, his tone reverent. He poked his head out from between a couple of tentacles, grinning in a maniacal manner. “Octopus.”

"It sure is."

Clint nodded. “Enjoy,” he said, holding Izzy’s five foot tall penguin plush under one arm. “And next time, you can babysit.”


End file.
